


Healing

by ashinae, cruisedirector



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: 69 (Sex Position), Anal Sex, Angst, Bath Sex, Bedtime Stories, Begging, Dialogue Heavy, Family, Friendship/Love, Heteronormativity, Humor, Kissing, Loss of Parent(s), Love, Lube, M/M, Massage, Nipple Play, Oral Sex, Prostate Massage, Rimming, Romance, Sibling Love, Sweat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-23
Updated: 2009-11-23
Packaged: 2017-10-03 15:29:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 22,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashinae/pseuds/ashinae, https://archiveofourown.org/users/cruisedirector/pseuds/cruisedirector
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Boromir shares secrets with Aragorn. The past and future intrude upon the present.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Remedy

"Your knots have knots. Have you been sleeping on rocks again?" demands Aragorn as he digs his fingers forcefully into Boromir's upper back, making Boromir yelp and dig _his_ fingers into the tree stump on which he is sitting. "Does this hurt?" the Ranger asks in a gentler voice.

"Yes," growls Boromir. This laying-on of hands was not his idea, and Aragorn seems determined to tear his muscles from his spine rather than to ease the ache in his shoulders which has made him restless all evening.

"Good." Oh, Aragorn is cruel; Boromir scowls at him, only to receive a smile in response. "Now remember to breathe, and this will go much more easily."

"I am trying, but it is difficult with your thumb pressing me there." Shifting, Boromir plants his feet in the soft, fragrant grass, chilly under his bare soles. In truth, it is not the uncomfortable pressure from Aragorn's fingers but the uncomfortable closeness of Aragorn's body that has constricted his throat. When Boromir is less tired and sore -- when he is on his guard -- it is easy to remember who Aragorn is, whom he may yet become, and the anger and frustration that rise in Boromir at such thoughts quickly quell the impulses that sometimes surge in him when the other man is near, quickening his breath, making his fingers and lips itch to...

"I can't get rid of this without my thumb pressing there," Aragorn interrupts his reverie. "Think about something else. Imagine...home. A warm bed. A crackling fire."

The image flickers easily to life within Boromir's mind. He can smell the smoke of the fire he built for the hobbits earlier, some distance from where he now sits, for he and Aragorn left camp so that they could talk without waking the exhausted little ones. He thinks of his bed in Minas Tirith, of the last time he was home, when it was his brother's hands rubbing the soreness from his back, of the pillow stuffed with feathers and the soft blanket that Faramir draped over him when he was too tired to remain upright...

"Now I am just aware of how cold I am," he complains to Aragorn, hissing at the fingertips pinching and prodding him.

"Then think about..." Aragorn pauses, digging his thumb in a little deeper, while his other hand holds firm on Boromir's shoulder. He leans over, and his breath is hot in Boromir's ear as he whispers: "Think about having me on my knees."

Boromir cannot repress the grunt that bursts from his throat, nor the way his body jerks in response, his neck snapping to the side with an audible crack. "That was easy," Aragorn chuckles. And...brushes his lips against...the side of Boromir's throat as he moves his hands again, seeking out more knots.

"What...are you..." Boromir stammers. The hands that were battering him a moment ago have suddenly become gentler, and his entire body is responding with alarming speed.

"Mm? Oh." Aragorn nuzzles at a spot just below Boromir's ear. "Well, I assumed I had caused enough pain for the time being. Now we need to see about making sure you are relaxed. You've been tense lately."

He had thought that maybe Aragorn's lips had brushed him inadvertently the first time, but twice in two minutes cannot be an accident. "I am relaxed," Boromir rumbles, much more forcefully than he intends.

"Oh, indeed? If that is the case, then it's your turn." Aragorn moves away to stand in front of Boromir, making shooing motions with his hands. "Up."

Boromir gapes, then stumbles to his feet, tugging his vest across his lap as he does so. He is certain that the gesture looks awkward, but not nearly so awkward as he would feel if Aragorn got a look at what he was trying to hide beneath his clothing. Turning quickly, he circles behind the Ranger and orders, "Down," again more gruffly than he should.

Grinning at him, Aragorn sits down and wriggles himself into a comfortable position. "Pay particular attention to my lower back, if you don't mind."

Boromir moves in close behind him, placing tentative hands just below Aragorn's ribcage and telling himself he is imagining things when he thinks he feels Aragorn shudder. He pushes down on the muscles, noting that Aragorn does not feel very tense; he moves with Boromir's fingers, undulating, and Boromir must scoot away before Aragorn's back comes into contact with his groin.

Aragorn sighs, tilting his head back. "Oh, that's nice. Don't stop."

In spite of the warmth radiating from the other man, Boromir shivers and has to bite his lip to keep from groaning. He presses harder, thinking that maybe Aragorn will stop squirming and sighing if he hits a sore spot, but Aragorn doesn't seem to have any cramps or pulls. In fact, he feels perfectly relaxed, at ease with his body as he leans back a little to speak: "You have an exquisite touch, Boromir."

Boromir is almost too close to continue what his hands are doing; his fingertips splay against the warm fabric of Aragorn's tunic, pushing the Ranger upright. In a few moments he knows that he will have to make his apologies and do something about the swelling ache in his groin. Having the other man's hair brushing his face is not helping matters.

Aragorn twists around to look at Boromir. He lifts his hand until the backs of his fingers touch Boromir's cheek. "You look flushed," he murmurs.

"I am warm," Boromir answers automatically, turning his face away from the fingers but not quite managing to detach them from his skin. "If your back is better, then perhaps you should sleep."

"But I'm not tired. Would you like me to work on yours again? I think there were a few knots I couldn't get rid of." Aragorn turns around completely, looking up at Boromir with a bit of a frown. "It felt as though you had been carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders."

Boromir takes an automatic step back; Aragorn's mouth is inches from his cock, hidden for now under his clothing but straining toward that warm breath. He does not think that Aragorn will believe him if he claims to be relaxed, and fears if he says he would like to walk that Aragorn might offer to accompany him. "Er," he blurts. "If you believe...it would be helpful."

"I think it would, but what is more important is whether or not you do." Aragorn stands, smiling. "Do you?"

What would be helpful, Boromir thinks, would be to push Aragorn back against a tree and...he flinches, closing his eyes, hoping that the other man assumes it is his aching muscles and not what is going through his mind that has made him turn. He tries to shake his head, but it comes out as a nod.

Aragorn reaches out for Boromir's arm, pulling him closer. His fingertips trail up Boromir's spine. "Where does it ache?" he whispers, his mouth close to Boromir's ear again.

Much too close, he is much too close: Boromir has grabbed Aragorn's arm to still it before he can stop himself, but he cannot release it from his grip once his fingers have closed around the bicep. Either Aragorn has decided to drive him mad, or Boromir is already mad and seeing unintended meanings in innocent gestures. Because it is the only way to know which is true, he leans back far enough to look into the Ranger's eyes.

Aragorn's hand slides up under Boromir's hair, his fingers gently kneading the back of his neck. "Where does it ache?" he asks again, his eyes darting to Boromir's mouth.

Roughly, Boromir returns the gesture, digging his fingers through coarse dark hair to cup the base of Aragorn's skull. He does not speak but presses with his fingers, unsure himself whether he is trying to knead the skin or draw Aragorn toward him.

"You _could_ have me on my knees, if that is what you want." Aragorn's other hand rests now on Boromir's hip, drawing him ever closer as Boromir stiffens, then trembles at his words.

"I thought..." Boromir's voice is alarmingly hoarse. He swallows, though his mouth is dry. "I thought you were jesting." Still propelled forward by Aragorn's hands, Boromir's torso comes to rest against the other man's, and he discovers that Aragorn is as aroused as he is.

"I don't jest about such things, Boromir."

"What are you..." Boromir decides that verbal communication is remarkably ineffective, and if Aragorn dares to mock him after making such an offer, he will be able to scoff at him in turn. He tilts his head and presses his mouth over Aragorn's, nudging his lips apart with his tongue.

Aragorn's arms encircle Boromir, pressing him tight to his body. He eagerly sucks Boromir's tongue into his mouth, moaning softly. A few heartbeats later, he is working to remove the barriers of clothing between them. Sweating and shivering at the same time, Boromir twists as Aragorn tugs at his many layers without letting his mouth break contact.

His own hands are itching to touch Aragorn, but this has happened very quickly and Boromir has no idea what it means. Is this about helping them sleep? Loneliness? Boredom? Or does Aragorn know that Boromir watches him when he finds himself unobserved, and has he somehow given himself away, seeking the man's company too often? Should he speak, or take what is offered without needing answers?

"Please don't tell me to stop," Aragorn whispers against Boromir's lips as his fingers seek the ties of Boromir's breeches.

"I was not..." Boromir moans helplessly as Aragorn's hand brushes his cock beneath the laces, and he arches forward. "Why are you doing this, why now?"

Aragorn's fingers mold themselves over Boromir's cock. "Because now seems as good a time as any. We have some privacy. And I cannot hold back any longer. I ache for you."

Boromir cannot hold back any longer either. He begins to tug at Aragorn's clothing in turn, trying not to grind himself into Aragorn's hand, for this will all end very quickly if he does. His mouth finds Aragorn's again, and he kisses him hard.

Aragorn moans and melts against Boromir, reaching into Boromir's breeches to wrap his cock in his hand. "I have longed for this," he whispers between heated kisses, stroking Boromir's cock. Then he stops, and drops to his knees, looking up at Boromir. "Let me?"

"Y-yes," agrees Boromir, ashamed of how his voice shakes but unable to do anything to control it. Nor can he control the way his hands move over Aragorn's head, stroking his hair, drawing him in close. If this is a trial of his will, if he is supposed to be strong enough to refuse, then he has failed utterly. He hopes fervently that this is not a trial.

Aragorn ducks his head, licking and sucking on Boromir's balls, his hands tight on the man's thighs. Then he looks up again to see if Boromir is watching him, and that knowledge sends a surge of excitement through Boromir as Aragorn licks the base of his cock, runs his tongue around the shaft and over the head, _tasting_ how much Boromir wants him. He imagines how they look, a King on his knees, the Steward's son with his fingers tight in his hair, and he moans.

The vibrations from Aragorn's mouth as he echoes the muffled sound and the slight movement of his fingers up Boromir's thighs make Boromir's legs tremble, though he tries to hold still, knowing that he will not last if he begins to thrust and wanting to savor this for as long as he can before surrendering. He had never thought to see Aragorn like this, crouched before him with his eyes half-open and his mouth shamelessly rounded to take him in.

Helplessly he cries out and surges forward. Aragorn hums softly, one hand sliding higher to squeeze Boromir's hip, guiding him forward. "Aragorn," Boromir warns with what breath he can spare, his hips flexing uncontrollably, trying to drive his cock deep into Aragorn's throat. He squeezes his eyes shut, unable to tolerate the sight of Aragorn's mouth wrapped around him so. A few deep breaths steady him, but then the pressure of Aragorn sucking on him makes him cry out anew.

Both of Aragorn's hands are now on Boromir's hips, and he urges Boromir to thrust into his mouth as he sucks more insistently. Boromir lets out a ragged, broken moan as the Ranger's fingernails drag over his skin -- he wants to let go, desperately, but he squeezes his eyes shut, focusing on the feel of Aragorn's tongue over the head of his cock. "Oh, I'm..." Boromir swallows the rest of the words because even this subtle release of breath brings him closer to the edge. Pulling back, he tries to stand still, to break the rhythm. "Do you want...is this what you want..."

"Mm-mmm!" Aragorn does not pull away, tugging Boromir toward him again. Boromir hopes that he has not misunderstood, because he knows that there will be no stopping. His breath quickens as he thrusts, feeling Aragorn's mouth shift around him, grateful for the man's broad palms against his hips because he might collapse otherwise. Aragorn's hair falls over his fingers, which tighten helplessly.

Then the King on his knees swallows around Boromir's cock, his arms all but wrapping around Boromir's hips to keep him close. "Aragorn," Boromir barks, too loudly, before he cannot speak, for it takes all his concentration not to shove himself down Aragorn's throat. He feels his buttocks clenching, feels his knees lock together as he lets Aragorn's hands take his weight, and he shouts as he comes.

Aragorn holds him up, trying to support him for as long as he needs. Boromir groans, groans again, and falls to his knees in the soft grass, letting his hands slide from the Ranger's head down to his shoulders, still holding on for strength. He wants to kiss Aragorn but cannot breathe yet, so he simply holds on.

Aragorn pulls Boromir against him with one arm and brushes damp hair back from his face. "You're...exquisite," he whispers. "Boromir."

Boromir echoes the gesture with quaking fingers, though he cannot speak, and would not know what to say if he could. His fingers fumble downward from Aragorn's shoulder. He knows that Aragorn must be aching with need, but is unable to steady his hand enough to stroke him. Gently, Aragorn's fingers circle his wrist and guide his hand down his body. "Please, Boromir," he whispers, his lips brushing over Boromir's jaw. "Please, touch me."

Boromir kisses Aragorn because he cannot make his fingers stop shaking; he needs a moment, but the taste of himself on Aragorn's tongue overwhelms the senses not already overwhelmed by Aragorn's touch. He wonders whether Aragorn can feel him shaking, and what he thinks it means -- whether he thinks him weak. His fingers tighten again spontaneously into fists.

"Shh," Aragorn soothes, "I won't let you go." He kisses Boromir, tenderly, a lover's kiss. "Not unless you ask me to."

Pressing his face to Aragorn's throat, Boromir just breathes for a minute, clutching Aragorn's shoulder with one hand, simply resting his other hand against Aragorn's groin. When his heart begins to slow, he lets his lips part and kisses Aragorn's neck, sliding his hand around the head of his cock. It feels hot to the touch, surprisingly smooth, and he begins to slide his mouth down Aragorn's body, wanting to taste.

Aragorn moans softly, arching into Boromir's touch. "I have dreamt of this," he murmurs, stroking Boromir's hair. "Longed for it...please."

"Lie down," Boromir whispers around Aragorn's nipple, moving a hand to Aragorn's back to support his weight. His neck is bent at an uncomfortable angle, but he refuses to give up the contact.

Aragorn lies back, looking up at Boromir. "Please," he says again, his fingers remaining in Boromir's hair.

Boromir shifts between Aragorn's legs, lowering his head, prodding his tongue into Aragorn's navel before moving it into the wiry hair beneath. His hands slide over Aragorn's thighs to rest between his legs, thumbs brushing the balls. Aragorn's cock surges against his chin, and Boromir lets his lips glide down the length before he parts them to run his tongue across the base and up.

"Oh," Aragorn says, softly, a shiver coursing its way through his body. "Oh," and he shifts his legs further apart, teasing his own nipple with his fingertips. "Boromir." He moans breathlessly.

Boromir glances up, watching Aragorn lick his lips and move his hand from one nipple to the other. The sight is painfully arousing despite his very recent climax, and he exhales forcefully around Aragorn's cock which jumps and twitches against the roof of his mouth. Then Boromir closes his eyes, taking it in, just holding it along his tongue for a moment, becoming acquainted with the feel and taste. He has dreamt of this too.

Aragorn's hand balls into a fist in Boromir's hair, and he breathes harshly through his mouth, but he makes himself lie still. Nonetheless, Boromir can feel the tension pooling in the muscles; he sucks gently, releases, and begins to slide his mouth up and down, bringing one of his hands to the base to pump in the same rhythm.

Aragorn groans and shudders, rocking up into Boromir's mouth. "Yes," he whispers, "oh, yes, Boromir. Love--" Boromir does not know whether Aragorn means that word as an endearment or merely a statement of approval, but he speeds up, taking Aragorn further into his throat, letting his fingers caress the balls and behind them. Aragorn's body jerks helplessly, moving to meet Boromir's mouth, to fill him. Crying out softly, wordlessly, Aragorn tangles his fingers in Boromir's hair, but does not guide him, merely holds him.

Ah, Aragorn likes this, then -- Boromir stretches his mouth wider, refusing to gag, as he glides a finger along the slick furrow between his buttocks, barely grazing the wrinkled opening. The Ranger gasps, his back arching off the ground. "Please!" he cries, spreading his thighs further apart. There is not enough wetness to press inside, but Boromir pushes a fingertip down to cover the hole, which twitches at the contact.

A bitter taste grows at the back of Boromir's throat, telling him that Aragorn must be close. He imagines being inside him, filling him, wondering whether Aragorn is envisioning the same thing. Then Aragorn covers his own mouth with his hand to stifle his shout as Boromir's mouth fills with hot liquid.

For a moment Boromir is drowning, until he pulls back enough to breathe and swallow while Aragorn's cock continues to pulse over his tongue. He looks up to see that the man's body is covered with a sheen of sweat and his head is tilted back, hand still clamped across his jaw. Boromir moves his fingers again between Aragorn's legs, making him jerk in surprise, nearly pulling away from Boromir before he falls limp to the ground with a whimpered groan. "Ahh, Boromir. Boromir."

Boromir lowers his head to kiss Aragorn's hip, rubbing his nose against the bone. "Was that what you wanted?" he whispers.

Aragorn lets out a small whimper. "Yes," he says, "oh, yes." Boromir wants to slide up and kiss his lips, but he does not know whether Aragorn will allow it so soon after coming in his mouth; he contents himself with small kisses and licks low on his body, letting his fingers wander across the damp skin. Then damp hands reach down to tug him up Aragorn's body. "That was wonderful," the Ranger says softly. "I could not have asked for more."

At that, Boromir _has_ to kiss him; he devours Aragorn's mouth, hands sliding into his hair, between Aragorn's head and the ground, as his feet rub along and tangle with Aragorn's legs.

Aragorn returns the kiss with surprising passion, wrapping his arms around him, holding him close. "I would like to be able to do this again," he says.

"So would I," Boromir whispers fervently. "I have wanted to do this before."

"As have I," Aragorn admits. "I was afraid...you didn't want to. Wouldn't let me."

"I wanted..." Boromir pauses, unsure how much is safe to voice, even now. "I thought you might think it improper. Or dangerous. Or simply wrong."

"No, Boromir. I don't." Aragorn chuckles softly. "Obviously. And I would do it again. And again."

Boromir has never seen Aragorn laugh from so close before; he did not know his eyes crinkled so in the corners, and cannot resist kissing him there. "So would I," he murmurs into the skin.

Aragorn smiles still, and pushes the hair back from Boromir's eyes so that he can see him. "For that, I am very glad."

It embarrasses Boromir to be so open, for he still does not know what Aragorn wants, nor expects; the man has a fiancée in Rivendell, and many more years' experience in the wilds. "I am glad that it pleases you," he nods, feeling awkward and happy all at once.

"And it does," Aragorn replies, kissing him tenderly. "More than you could know."


	2. Alleviation

It is late, after a long day of hiking through rough woods. Boromir's muscles are sore and his head throbbing, though not with pain. He thinks he needs...

He glances at Aragorn, and what he needs becomes sharp and vivid in his mind.

"Are you well?" Aragorn asks. Immediately Boromir thinks to ask him to rub his sore back, but he is too proud to make such a demand; Aragorn would know his meaning instantly, and might scoff at him.

Instead Boromir glares meaningfully around at the other members of the Fellowship. "Perhaps we should look for firewood," he suggests -- pointlessly, as they have plenty. But he hopes that perhaps Aragorn will take his hint.

Indeed, Aragorn says at once, "I will walk with you." He looks at the merrily crackling fire, and adds, "We do need more wood. Legolas? We are going to look for firewood."

"Enjoy yourselves," the Elf replies cryptically, and Boromir is certain that he is smirking.

The Ranger waves in the general direction of the river. "Let us look over there." Boromir thinks that he could not possibly have made his desires more transparent to the entire Fellowship, but at least Aragorn does not seem to be objecting. He strides off quickly toward the river, into the trees. Aragorn follows along behind him, chuckling quietly.

"I think it is safe to assume that Legolas knows," he says.

"Knows what?" Boromir asks defensively, though he is fairly certain he knows of what Aragorn speaks.

"About us," Aragorn replies easily. He falls into stride with Boromir, standing very close.

Boromir clears his throat, kicking a pile of leaves away from his boots. He wants to know exactly what Aragorn means by "us" but is unsure how to broach the subject. "Legolas wants us to believe that he knows everything before we do," he says instead.

"He's very perceptive," Aragorn says. "Elves often are. And Men can be painfully transparent."

"What do you mean by that?" demands Boromir, whirling to look at the Ranger. He thinks to point out that it was, after all, Aragorn who started this, no matter how poorly he hid his own feelings.

"He has known how I have...desired this...almost this entire time."

"Has he indeed," murmurs Boromir while he considers this. He is unsure whether Legolas and Aragorn knew one another before recently in Imladris, though he is certain that they must have known of one another through Arwen and other Elves. In any case, he would not have expected Legolas to approve of Aragorn dallying with anyone else -- certainly not another Man, let alone the son of Denethor.

"Yes." Aragorn wanders to the edge of the river and sits down, staring out over the water. "I'm not entirely certain what he thinks of it, all things considered, but he knows." Boromir sits beside him at what he considers a safe distance. It is possible that the Ranger chose to walk with him merely so that they might converse; he does not know what is safe to presume.

Aragorn peers over at Boromir, a slow, wicked little grin crossing his face. "I would not be surprised if he can smell you on me."

Heat flares in Boromir's face and in his groin. "Are Elvish senses really so strong?" If this is so, then Legolas must have known about every dream he had about Aragorn, about every night he crept away from camp to relieve his tension...is it possible that the Elf told Aragorn?

Aragorn swings one leg over the log so that he can press against Boromir's side. He smiles, ducking his head to taste the side of Boromir's neck. "Elves have a very delicate sense of smell. I'm sure you've noticed that. I'm also sure he knows what we do when we part from the group. And I am _not_ ashamed of what we do, Boromir."

Boromir urgently wants to ask about Aragorn's Elvish intended, but the tongue against his throat is sufficient distraction to make him forget his concerns. Instead he pulls Aragorn closer.

"Are you ashamed, Boromir?" Aragorn asks against Boromir's throat. "Do you regret being with me?"

The second question is much less difficult to answer than the first, and perhaps answers the first: "No. I do not." What he is feeling is not shame but something less easily definable, and perhaps less easily assuaged. "What would they think of this, between us, among the Elves?"

"It would depend on the Elf. I think Legolas is amused. Others might see it as a sign of the weakness inherent in all Men."

Boromir ponders this as he lets his nose nuzzle in Aragorn's hair. "Do you believe that all Men are weak?" Perhaps this is why Aragorn is willing to indulge with him: a belief that this is inevitable, if regrettable, and that another would do in his absence.

"Not all," Aragorn responds, his arms slipping around Boromir. "Not all, Boromir..."

Tonight, Boromir decides, he does not care if this is weakness. He wants it...wants Aragorn. Turning, he captures Aragorn's mouth with his own.

Aragorn sighs against Boromir's mouth. His fingers splay over Boromir's back as he urges him closer, until he is pressed between Aragorn's legs. "I need this," he whispers, and licks Boromir's lip. "Need you."

Boromir sighs and relaxes into the embrace, content for a moment simply to be touched so intimately. Most of the soldiers he has known were rough with their hands and rarely used their mouths. He enjoys how freely the Ranger kisses him and uses his tongue for pleasure. When Aragorn touches his lip again, he opens his mouth in welcome.

Aragorn eagerly tastes Boromir's mouth -- teeth, tongue, palate, taking care to tease and touch all that he can with his tongue. He works his hands forward, beginning to loosen Boromir's many layers. "You wear far too much," he complains when he breaks the kiss to breathe.

Boromir's clothes are his most direct connection to home and family on this journey -- the sword was his father's, the armor his uncle's, and he cannot look at the White Tree on the gauntlets without thinking of his brother. Nonetheless at the moment he agrees with Aragorn; his cock is pressing uncomfortably against the laces of his breeches and he is far too warm. He tugs at his own vest with one hand, at Aragorn's with the other.

Aragorn pulls away Boromir's hand, lifts it to his mouth, kisses his knuckles. Then he slips from the log to kneel between Boromir's legs, reaching up to push away each layer, until Boromir is bare-chested, his breeches open. Aragorn reaches up and brushes his fingers down Boromir's cheek. "So lovely," he whispers, and presses a kiss to the middle of Boromir's chest.

Boromir is not comfortable with this sort of admiration, more the way he thinks a man should talk to a woman than to another man; these are not words that he can imagine himself saying, though he wonders whether that will bother Aragorn. Perhaps the Ranger only says the words because he believes they will make Boromir do his bidding. It would be so easy to encourage him to lower his head, but Boromir thinks that perhaps he should not let Aragorn take the initiative yet again. "You are still dressed," he points out.

"Indeed, I am," Aragorn agrees, trailing his mouth down Boromir's chest and belly. His hands rest on Boromir's hips, holding him still as his tongue follows the trail of his lips back up Boromir's torso.

Boromir catches his waist as soon as he can reach it, tugging upward on Aragorn's tunic with one hand while he fumbles at the laces of his breeches with the other. The grass is cool and damp, but his cloak is heavy and the thick lining is soft and warm; he thinks that he would like to lie down, to take things more slowly this time.

Aragorn lets out a noise of protest. "I was enjoying myself," he says, but does not try to stop Boromir. Rather, he takes the opportunity to help.

"You will enjoy yourself more in a more comfortable position." Boromir stumbles to his feet, pulling Aragorn with him. While the other man drops his tunic onto the ground, he spreads his cloak out and sits again, tugging off his boots.

"I'm glad we don't actually need firewood." Aragorn grins, and finishes removing his clothing, stretching out on Boromir's cloak. His feet dangle onto the grass.

Boromir guesses that if they return with no firewood, Gandalf is certain to remark upon that fact; he reminds himself to bring back a few logs, if he can remember. He wishes there were a fire here; he would like to be able to see Aragorn better than what he can glimpse in the scant light filtering through the trees, the man stretched invitingly before him as he lies beside him, head raised on an elbow.

Aragorn slips his hands behind his head, smiling up at Boromir. "Now this," he says, "is a sight to which I could grow accustomed."

"I cannot see so well as I would like," Boromir says before he can stop himself. In order to forestall further conversation, he leans over and latches his mouth onto one of Aragorn's nipples.

Aragorn moans shamelessly, his fingers tangling in Boromir's hair. "I would have you in a proper bed, if I could," he whispers, eyes slipping closed. "With candles burning..."

He could have had him in a proper bed, in Imladris, thinks Boromir, though he does not voice the thought. Or perhaps Aragorn could not have, staying in the house of his intended's father, with her sleeping under the same roof. And Boromir is not certain himself how he would have responded those weeks ago, under more formal circumstances...then Aragorn's knotted fingers tug gently at his hair, and he focuses instead on making him shiver.

Aragorn traces circles on Boromir's shoulder as his body shakes appreciatively under Boromir's mouth. "With wine," he adds, "and firelight and -- ohhh -- I would...would..." His voice trails off with a soft moan.

Perhaps Aragorn is taunting him, after all, decides Boromir. Well, no matter: he will take what he desires here, and he desires this. His lips slide lower, tongue tracing patterns on the warm skin, and his hands slide up Aragorn's thighs.

"Boromir." Pushing himself up on his elbows, Aragorn looks down at him. He chews on his lip, briefly, perhaps to keep from moaning aloud. "Would you care for..." Still Boromir continues to flick his tongue toward the Ranger's cock, and his voice trails off along with his thoughts. "Water," he says finally. "Bathe."

Boromir glances up from the thick patch of hair that descends into Aragorn's groin. He has been ignoring the smell of sweat and dirt on both their bodies, which is no deterrent to his desire. But the thought of slipping into the current with Aragorn, of touching him under the water, sends another jolt through him. "Yes," he agrees.

A bright smile crosses Aragorn's features. "Good," he says, and rises to his feet after squirming out from underneath Boromir. Still smiling, he reaches out and grips Boromir's hand, tugging him up and guiding him to the water's edge; he walks backward, stealing kisses. Boromir feels his feet sliding on the slippery grass and lurches into Aragorn's arms, propelling them both clumsily down the bank and ankle-deep into the river.

It is chilly, but not painfully cold, and Aragorn's hands are hot around Boromir's waist. The Ranger laughs softly, wrapping his arms around Boromir to steady him. "Careful," he admonishes, continuing to lead them deeper into the water. He shivers a little and presses close, ducking his head to press a kiss to Boromir's shoulder.

Boromir aches from the contrast of the cool river and the heat still swelling his groin, making him ache where he is crushed against Aragorn. With one hand he reaches down to cup water in his palm, letting it spill over Aragorn's back and buttocks. Aragorn shivers and gasps, arching his back. He strains towards Boromir to capture his mouth. His own hand dips into the water, then comes up to drip water into Boromir's hair.

It would be best, Boromir thinks, to get this over with quickly. He throws his weight forward, knocking himself and Aragorn both flat in the water. Aragorn comes up sputtering, wiping his hair from his eyes. He gives Boromir a mock-ferocious glare. "Now your hair is clean," Boromir grins.

"Indeed it is," Aragorn agrees, grins back, and splashes a handful of water at Boromir, who steps forward as if he will embrace Aragorn again. But at the moment their hands touch, his leg pulls at Aragorn's under the surface. Aragorn quickly reaches out for Boromir as he allows himself to topple backwards, pulling them both under the water.

This time Boromir comes up laughing, cold all over and not so fiercely aroused, though his skin tingles briskly and the ache for contact has not left him. His hands travel over Aragorn's submerged chest, not washing so much as exploring it. Aragorn shivers and presses close again, sliding his hands down Boromir's back and lower. "You do not smile nearly enough," he whispers, pressing a kiss to the corner of Boromir's mouth.

"Perhaps I need to bathe more often." Boromir knows that he is smiling too widely, like a besotted fool, but he cannot help himself. His fingers move into the thick hair surrounding Aragorn's cock, then below, cupping the balls now retreated tightly beneath cold skin.

Aragorn groans softly, kissing Boromir again. "Perhaps," he agrees, and shivers. "But for now, I think I would like to try to get warm."

"Wait." Boromir tilts his head back into the water, until his hair is completely submerged and he can run the fingers of one hand through it, untangling the knots and snarls. He sees Aragorn looking down at him and licks his lips, wondering if Aragorn is thinking of having him on his knees like this. Aragorn reaches out and lets his hand join Boromir's, carding through the wet hair. He smiles, his eyes warm and happy. He appears about to speak, but then stops himself, dropping his eyes from Boromir's face.

Boromir rises slowly, weaving his fingers into Aragorn's hair in turn and tugging gently at the knotted ends. "Turn around."

Aragorn smiles and turns obediently, pressing his back against Boromir's chest. He rests his head on Boromir's shoulder and sighs softly. "Like this?" he asks.

Boromir's hands move under the water, nudging Aragorn's thighs apart from behind. He strokes with his fingertips between the Ranger's legs. When he encounters the puckered hole, he rubs it gently while his other hand moves around the front, dipping into the crevices where Aragorn's legs meet his groin.

Aragorn moans, lifting a hand to cup the back of Boromir's head. "Oh...very nice," he says approvingly.

"I have heard that it is safest to wash meat before eating it," Boromir teases, pressing down harder with his fingers and letting his lips graze Aragorn's neck.

"Oh," Aragorn says eloquently. His head drops forward, eyes closing as he pushes back against Boromir's hand. "I hope that I can provide enough to satisfy your hunger."

Boromir raises one hand up Aragorn's torso, trailing chilly water, until his fingers find a hard nipple to squeeze. "I am not concerned about that."

"I am," Aragorn replies. "I am concerned that I may embarrass myself if you keep doing this." Yet he doesn't try to move Boromir's hands away.

It makes Boromir smile to know that even waist-deep in cool water, he can excite Aragorn. Chuckling against pliant skin, he asks, "What would you like me to do?"

"I would like very much if you took me back to dry land." Aragorn strokes the back of Boromir's head.

"Come, then." Boromir cannot resist a parting tug at Aragorn's cock before stepping away. An unhappy sound escapes Aragorn's throat, despite the fact that he was the one who had wanted to get out of the water. He follows Boromir, keeping very close.

They have nothing with which to dry off save their clothes; Boromir glances at his velvet sleeves, decides that some making do can't be helped on a journey such as this, and blots some of the wetness first from his body, then from Aragorn's. Aragorn kisses him, stroking flesh wherever he can, making Boromir's work more difficult. "You are impatient tonight," he observes.

"I want you," Aragorn replies, as though this explains everything.

And maybe it does. "Then have me," Boromir suggests, sitting back on his cloak and pulling Aragorn down beside him.

Aragorn's finger trails down Boromir's chest. "How shall I have you, Boromir?"

In your mouth, Boromir wants to ask, but he thinks that perhaps Aragorn will not wish to wait for him. Instead he suggests, "Now you are clean, I can finish what I was doing before, if you wish."

"Mm," Aragorn replies, thoughtfully. "You certainly could..." He pushes Boromir onto his back and his mouth latches onto a spot low on his neck, sucking insistently. His hand trails down Boromir's side.

"I can do little if you have me trapped under you," groans Boromir, arching and writhing at the touch.

"Yes, that's a very good point." Aragorn slides over Boromir, his knees on either side of one of Boromir's legs. "That is a pity," he adds, smiling, his tongue sliding over and around Boromir's collarbone.

With another groan, Boromir thrusts upward, knowing that he could probably flip the Ranger with his weight but not in a hurry to do so. "I will give you another bath," he threatens.

A wide, wicked smile crosses Aragorn's features as he lifts his head to look up at Boromir. "Do you promise?" he asks.

Boromir reaches to find one of Aragorn's hands on his skin, drawing it toward his swollen cock. "See for yourself."

"Oh, most impressive," Aragorn teases as his fingers close around the hot flesh. Then he slides down Boromir's body, pressing kisses to his torso along the way, until he is on his belly between Boromir's thighs.

"I thought...you were going to let me...do this to you," Boromir manages to get out between gasps.

Aragorn glances up. "You don't want me to...?"

"Of course I..." Boromir squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, unable to bear the sight of Aragorn between his legs. "Turn around beside me."

Aragorn licks his lip, and then moves over to Boromir's side, facing the opposite direction, and tugs him close. "Like this?" he asks, and his breath is warm against Boromir's cock.

Instead of answering, Boromir lifts one of Aragorn's legs over his shoulder and moves to nuzzle Aragorn's thigh. "Oh," Aragorn says in response, and trails his tongue along the length of Boromir's cock. In this position Boromir cannot quite reach with his tongue to lick Aragorn's hole, but he slides a hand there as his mouth travels backward, laving around the base of Aragorn's erection while his nose nudges the damp curls. He feels himself throb against Aragorn's lips.

"Touch me," Aragorn gasps. He takes the head of Boromir's cock into his mouth, holding him there a moment before his tongue starts to move over, around, all teasing lost from his touches. Boromir swallows down as much of Aragorn's cock as he can manage while he presses a damp fingertip past the resisting muscle and into the hot softness beyond. He is suddenly very close, on the verge of exploding into Aragorn's mouth.

Aragorn grunts, his body stiffening. Then his fingers tighten on Boromir's hip as he moans around Boromir's cock, spurting between his lips. As the tremors subside, he pulls away, gasping, "I'm sorry. Couldn't...hold back."

Boromir cannot speak, in part because of the seed flowing out the side of his mouth and in part because he is aroused past his ability to endure from Aragorn's sudden yielding. He exhales with a moan, shifting his hips toward Aragorn's warm breath. Aragorn rolls onto his back, taking Boromir with him. "Please," he says, his voice thick, and draws Boromir's cock into his mouth again. His arms go around Boromir's waist and he holds on tight as he sucks greedily.

Boromir knows that if he thrusts too forcefully at this angle, he will choke Aragorn, but neither can he control the forward momentum of his body when he slides down into the heat of that mouth; he throws back his head to bellow a warning. Aragorn's fingers splay over Boromir's buttocks and he breathes harsh, panting little breaths through his nose. He nearly gags as Boromir thrusts hard into his mouth, his fingers squeezing reflexively, but he does not push Boromir away.

Boromir pulls out, collapses over Aragorn's chest and comes hard, spraying down his belly and leaving a puddle in the hollow of his ribs. He groans over and over, continuing to thrust even when he is spent. Aragorn lightly strokes Boromir's back, waiting for him to ride out the intensity of his orgasm.

"You," Boromir begins, and then cannot remember what it was he intended to say.

"Yes?" Aragorn asks, his fingertips tracing words in Elvish on Boromir's back.

"Your mouth is..." But Boromir realizes that Aragorn may think he is taunting him, comparing him to a whore, which is the last thing he wishes to suggest. It is himself, Boromir thinks wryly, who has become shameless. "I enjoyed that," he admits instead.

Aragorn presses a kiss to Boromir's hip. "My mouth is...?"

"Warm," Boromir says helplessly. To forestall further conversation, he turns and kisses Aragorn, letting him taste his own seed in Boromir's mouth. Aragorn sucks on Boromir's tongue, moaning softly, and pulls him against him, though they are going to be very sticky, very soon. "You are very wet," Boromir sighs with sudden amused approval. "Legolas will be able to smell me on you again."

"Mm, yes, he will," Aragorn says and pushes Boromir onto his back again. He starts to slide down his body, licking at him. "I suppose he will just have to cope with it. It isn't as though the hobbits don't do such things under their blankets at night. And he doesn't complain about them."

Boromir laughs; he has heard the noises coming from Merry and Pippin's bedrolls, but thought that perhaps he had misunderstood their meaning, for he did not know how such things were regarded in the Shire. "Perhaps we should wash again, anyway." Aragorn hums in agreement, swirling his tongue around Boromir's belly button and making him squirm, ticklish. "If you keep that up, I am only going to want you again."

"That would be a shame." Aragorn eases back up Boromir's body, flicking his tongue against the nipples. His fingertips move feather-light over Boromir's sides. Boromir shudders. It is too soon for him to become erect again, but his groin is full of uncomfortable heat and his entire body feels oversensitive, as if he has had too much of some potent pipeweed. When Aragorn sits back on his thighs, looking down at him with a smile, trailing his fingers through the seed on Boromir's belly and then lifting those fingers to his mouth, Boromir closes his eyes and groans, "You will kill me."

"That is not my intention," Aragorn insists. He offers a finger to Boromir, who flicks out his tongue, sucking the bitter taste of himself from Aragorn's skin. He is slightly overwhelmed, fearful of saying things he does not mean...or things he does mean but should not say. Then Aragorn speaks again. "You are -- I could have you, again and again, and not tire of it. You."

"Nor would I," Boromir manages, brushing his lips against the now-clean finger danging beside his face. He glances at the single item Aragorn still wears, the necklace around his throat, and reaches up to touch the sharp point of the jewel. "I am glad to have you while I can."

Aragorn wraps his fingers around Boromir's wrist but does not pull his hand away. "So am I," he says softly. "Boromir..." And he leans down, still holding Boromir's hand to his chest, and kisses him tenderly. Boromir lets his hand drift into Aragorn's hair, cupping his head. He will be exhausted on the march the next day if they continue, yet he cannot stop as Aragorn stretches out on top of him, rubbing his own hardening cock against Boromir's. "I cannot resist you," he whispers.

Boromir is a bit surprised that Aragorn has recovered so quickly; the man is, after all, considerably older than himself. "Are you always so eager for more?" he jokes.

"From you?" smiles Aragorn. "Oh, yes."

"I wish we had done this in a proper bed, when we had nowhere to be in the morning," Boromir smiles back. He arches up for another kiss.

Aragorn shivers, and brushes his lips teasingly over Boromir's. "As do I. But I fear I would have been far more demanding of you." He sucks at Boromir's bottom lip. "I would have asked you to make me scream, Boromir. To ride me until I begged you for mercy."

"You would have asked me to ride you? In Imladris?" Boromir's breath catches and his cock surges. Aragorn swallows, pressing his face against Boromir's neck as he nods. "You should have done so," Boromir whispers, holding Aragorn's head with one hand, his waist with the other, as his hips move in a restless rhythm.

"Oh," Aragorn gasps, rubbing himself against Boromir again. "Boromir." He reaches down to grasp his hip, and lifts his head to look down at him. "I -- am sorry I let the opportunity...mmmescape."

Boromir nods against the ground, thrusting back more vigorously. "I think...if you screamed..." He imagines half the Fellowship coming through the trees with weapons drawn, and laughs.

"I could...stay quiet. Oh. Ohh..." Aragorn shudders, slipping a hand between their bodies, wrapping his fingers around both of them and making Boromir groan.

"Perhaps I could not." One of them must be prudent, now, thinks Boromir, for in a moment, he, at least, will have no mind left. "Do you think...it would be wise?"

"Probably not. Oh!" Aragorn groans, loudly, his fingers tightening briefly around their cocks. "Boromir!"

A red haze covers Boromir's thoughts as Aragorn clutches them together; it is not unlike being in the presence of the Ring, though vastly more pleasurable, sending fire shooting through his groin. "You...aaah!"

Aragorn kisses Boromir, cries out into his mouth as he comes, sweet wet heat spreading between them. He shudders, and does not move his hand away. Boromir lies still, shaking, embarrassed at how quickly the Ranger has undone him, twice, in a single night, yet unable to regret it. He squeezes a hand between them and covers Aragorn's fingers with his own. The Ranger lets out a soft noise that borders on a whimper as he rains kisses down over Boromir's face.

"You _are_ trying to kill me," Boromir manages to whisper when he is unable to capture Aragorn's mouth with his own.

"Never," Aragorn promises. "Never."

Boromir groans and rolls, taking Aragorn over to his side with him. They are dripping onto the fur collar of the cloak, but he does not care; it will be stiff and matted, a reminder against his skin, all the next day. "I would like to sleep like this," he murmurs. It is strange, for usually after pleasure he craves his own space. "But we should clean. And go back." He wonders whether the wizard or the Elf would say anything if they moved their bedrolls together; he thinks he does not care. "Do you want to come to the river with me, or should I dump a bootful of water over you?"

"Mm. I'll come." Aragorn stifles a yawn against Boromir's shoulder, and gives no sign that he plans to move. Boromir sits then, hauling Aragorn upright with him. He has a sudden, disorienting memory of waking with his brother after a mock-fight in the mud that left them both filthy and too tired to walk down to the water until after they had napped, exchanging guilty, happy smiles when they finally crept away. He thinks that it has been far too long since he had a friend...a peer.

Aragorn leans against him, kissing the side of his neck. "Need to do this again," he mumbles sleepily, stifling another yawn before he gives Boromir what can only be described as a silly grin. Boromir cannot help but return it. The thought that he can have this, night after night until they reach a point in their journey when it becomes impossible, fills him with pleasure.

Then Aragorn tugs on his hands: "Now take me to the river or I'll fall asleep here." Boromir leads him quickly to the water's edge, where he washes Aragorn off with quick splashes of the cold water. The chill clears his head a little, but does not shake off the relaxed tired feeling that seeps into his bones.

They finish washing, and dry off as best they can, and dress. Aragorn sneaks another kiss before they return to camp. And, ignoring an arch look from Legolas, he moves his bedroll closer to Boromir's.

"We need to keep warm," Aragorn announces to no one in particular.

"Yes," Boromir agrees with a smile, rolling his eyes in the direction of the trees. "We looked everywhere, but couldn't find any firewood."


	3. Salve

"...so Faramir and I snuck away from the festivities. We were really quite drunk. We got some horses...I don't know how long we were riding, but the next thing I remember, we were on a farm. And there were cows lying on the ground, and Faramir was laughing like a madman."

"The cows were _lying_ on the ground?" Aragorn has both eyebrows stretched high into his forehead -- to keep himself from smiling, Boromir suspects.

"Faramir claims that we tipped them over."

Crossing his arms, Aragorn regards Boromir skeptically. "And _you_ claim not to remember a thing about it."

"I said I was drunk. Very drunk."

"Yet not so drunk that you could not ride." Finally Boromir cannot maintain the pretense of innocence, and he laughs, joined by Aragorn. Yet after a moment, the Ranger sobers. "You miss him, don't you."

"There is very little in this world that is more important to me than my brother," Boromir nods, glancing away from Aragorn's eyes. He is not ready to share all of his feelings about Faramir with Aragorn, just as Aragorn has shown little inclination to tell Boromir of his past with Arwen or any of the Elves or Men he has known in his long life.

Aragorn leans forward, resting his crossed arms on his knees with a thoughtful expression. His chin rests on one of his hands. "You said that your brother first had the dream that sent you to Rivendell. Why did he not accompany you on the journey?"

"Someone had to stay behind to defend Gondor," Boromir says evasively. He does not wish to explain that he persuaded his father and Faramir both that as Captain of the White Tower, he should be the one to go. His father had suspected that Boromir craved glory, and in truth has been prouder of that ambition than of Faramir's desire to seek out the meaning of the riddle for its own sake.

Boromir had allowed his father to believe that he cared only for the strength of Gondor, and had told his brother that he wanted only to explore, to learn of the past, though he wondered now if either fully believed him or if they both had understood that his motives were puzzling, even to himself. He knows only that he was driven to take on the journey, not least because he longed to leave Minas Tirith, where he could see his father's rule faltering yet could not defend him.

When first he had first seen the Ring, he had thought he understood his purpose in coming. Then he had discovered the identity of this Ranger, and committed to this quest...and now he is not certain that he understands at all.

"You have said that your father is not kind to your brother," begins Aragorn. As Boromir lifts his head, condemning himself for having said such a thing, Aragorn seems to notice his displeasure, for he quickly amends, "I'm sorry. That is not for me to question."

"No, it is not." Glancing away, Boromir finds himself grateful for the sympathy. "But he does _not_ treat Faramir well. I would not be surprised to learn that Faramir returns to Minas Tirith only long enough to make any reports that he feels are necessary to present in person, and then leaves again shortly thereafter."

"I am surprised your father was willing to spare you for so long."

Boromir speaks softly. "I think he wanted to be certain that the situation was...handled properly. I believe that he hoped I would find in Imladris a means to defend Gondor."

"Will he be very disappointed in you when you tell him that you have sent the Ring into Mordor to be destroyed?" Boromir does not reply; he does not think he needs to. After a moment Aragorn asks, "Does it upset you?"

"My father's disappointment, or sending the Ring into Mordor?"

"I thought we were agreed." In an instant Aragorn's tone and bearing have both changed: he sits straight, with the bearing of a King, and he speaks to Boromir like a ruler facing a shifty ally. Boromir meets his glare, as if daring Aragorn to question his loyalty to their quest, until Aragorn finally turns his head away and nods, almost apologetic. "You have not often disappointed him, I imagine." Then he smiles suddenly. "What did he say when you and Faramir returned from this...expedition among the cows?"

"We never told him what we had done, though he was angry with us for 'running away' as we did." Boromir pauses for a moment, plucking at a blade of grass. "He was angry with Faramir for convincing me to go. He did not believe me when I said it was my idea that we should leave. I was bored."

"Curious that he blamed your younger brother. I would think that as the older sibling he would expect you to set the example. Would he have given you leave, had you asked?"

"No. Which is why we had to skulk away. He thinks that Faramir...influences me." Boromir waits for Aragorn to ask the obvious question, and, when Aragorn remains silent, answers it anyway. "I have nearly always done whatever Faramir has asked of me."

The Ranger nods without judgment in his expression. "I have never had a younger sibling. I envy you. My life might have been very different had my mother had another child."

Boromir is not certain of Aragorn's age at the time of Arathorn's death; he knows, however, that Aragorn's mother lived to see him as a man, and envies him in turn. "I wish my mother had not died so young. I still miss her," he admits softly. "I think both our lives would have been very different, had she lived. At least Faramir would have had someone when I could not be there for him."

"Perhaps he is too like your mother for your father to look upon him without feeling the loss. I think I must resemble my father, for my mother rarely looked on me without pain in her eyes." Aragorn raises himself up a bit to find his pipe in a pocket in his vest, sitting closer to Boromir when he comes to rest again. "We have that in common, having been raised without a parent. Do you suppose that is why..." Shaking the pipe, the Ranger finds the weed nearly gone. He toys with it, distracted.

"...why...?"

Aragorn glances sharply at Boromir, then busies himself with cleaning the pipe, which he has not lit since they left their camp. "Why we are close to one another," he concludes after a time. "Why we seek out the company of men."

Boromir feels himself tense. For a moment he thinks to feign confusion, reminding Aragorn that he spends more time among Elves than Men, and then he thinks to deny the man's words, to dismiss what is between them as a soldier's relief on a long march without women. Yet Aragorn is being unusually frank with him, and he does not wish to end the moment. "That could indeed be the reason," he begrudges.

Aragorn sighs quietly, laying his pipe in the grass. "I thought that you were about to disagree. Or to deny that you seek companionship with other men. I am surprised that your father has not tried to persuade you to marry."

"Oh, he has," Boromir snorts. This year it has been his cousin Lothíriel whom his father has attempted to convince him would make a perfect bride. Last summer it had been Éowyn of Rohan, whom Boromir has never met. If he were to marry, he thinks savagely, it would not be with Éowyn or some other noblewoman homesick for her childhood home, as his mother had been. He would prefer a wife of peasant stock tied to Gondor and Minas Tirith, an earthy woman who would not miss him overmuch when he was on patrol with his men.

"Will your brother marry, do you think?"

"Either he or I will have to, at some point. Though I fear that my father intends to send him off to wed the daughter of some ally far from my city." Another sigh escapes Boromir's lips. "At least, perhaps, he will be happier."

"Boromir...was your father violent with him? Or with you?" The question goes too far, and Boromir pulls away suddenly, angry and humiliated that Aragorn would think to ask such a thing. "I'm sorry," the Ranger says quickly. "It only seems...you carry scars that you do not show. Perhaps your brother, as well." In a flash of movement Aragorn's hand rests on Boromir's forearm, warm and reassuring. "Do not be ashamed! It is no fault of your own."

"It is one thing for him to have taken his anger out on me. But I should have done more to protect Faramir."

"You cannot blame yourself for Denethor's temper. Did no one know? Did Gandalf not realize?"

"I think Gandalf might have known, but did not want to antagonize my father. There is some quarrel between them, I have never learned what it might be." Boromir lies back in the grass and stares up at the stars through the trees. He does not want to weigh his father's judgment against the wizard's, and wishes not to be angry anymore.

Nodding, Aragorn stretches out in the grass with his head propped up on one arm. But he is looking at Boromir, not at the sky. "What do you think will happen, when you go back?" he asks.

Boromir glances at Aragorn. "I imagine I will take my place with my men."

"Your father is not a young man. He must be grooming you to take his place." Aragorn sounds apologetic to have made Boromir defensive. "I think you have spent much of your life pleasing others, but I cannot tell if you have been happy."

"There are times when I have been very happy."

"Tipping cows with your brother?" he smiles.

Boromir smiles in return. "Yes, tipping cows with my brother. Most of my happiest moments include Faramir." He hesitates. "And talking with you."

The words make Aragorn flush, as Boromir had hoped they might. "You are happy now, then?"

"Very," Boromir says, his smile broadening. It is impossible not to touch Aragorn then. His fingers encircle the other's shoulder, squeezing, his thumb barely brushing Aragorn's chin.

"Then I am glad." Aragorn's hand comes up, covering Boromir's and lifting it in his own. He lowers his head to kiss Boromir's knuckles.

Boromir's other hand comes up and rests on Aragorn's side as he turns his head, brushing his lips over Aragorn's ear. "And I am happy when we are...together."

"So am I," murmurs Aragorn fervently, turning to find Boromir's lips with his own, flattening himself against the grass.

Boromir pulls Aragorn against him, sighing against the other man's lips. "Why does everything feel so different in Imladris and here in the wild than in Gondor? Time seems to stand still. I feel as though we have eternity before us." Boromir pauses a moment, and runs his fingers through Aragorn's hair. "Though I am always happiest when we are able to bathe."

For a moment Aragorn seems to believe the comment to be earnest; then he realizes that he is being teased, leans in and laughs against Boromir's skin, sliding a hand beneath his collar. "Was it so terrible, before?"

"Well, perhaps the way you smelled..."

"You hardly smelled like a spring garden, yet did I complain?"

"Of course not. And neither did I. Though I was afraid that if I touched your hair, I would not be able to retrieve my hand."

"So your long reticence was from fear of my hair?" Aragorn is tasting skin, sinking his fingers into Boromir's hair. "It is not so fair as Legolas', but it is Gimli's beard that should make you cower."

Boromir moans softly. His fingers tug at Aragorn's tunic, pulling it from the waist of his breeches. Then his fingertips slide along Aragorn's back. "Gimli takes surprisingly good care of his beard."

"As do you," whispers Aragorn, licking Boromir's jawline beneath the scratchy hair, his hands pushing Boromir's vest and tunic up and out of the way. There is a small scar just beneath his chin that few have ever discovered; Aragorn presses his tongue against it, rocking his lower body against the swelling in his breeches.

"I do what -- I can," Boromir replies with a gasp, pressing against Aragorn. He jerks hard on Aragorn's tunic, and when Aragorn pulls away briefly to remove it, Boromir reaches up and smoothes his hands down Aragorn's chest. The Ranger shivers, though the night air is warm. Twisting, he tries to get Boromir to touch his nipples, all the while wrestling with his clothes -- it would not do to tear them in haste.

Boromir rubs his thumbs over Aragorn's nipples, looking up intently to watch his reaction. The way his eyes close briefly, the way his lips part, make Boromir's heart beat faster. "You are..." he whispers, hesitating as he seeks the right phrase. Not beautiful, not magnificent; he cannot say such things to this man. He sighs again, wishing he had a better way with words. Certainly Faramir could describe Aragorn perfectly, but Faramir is not here. If he were, in his stead...Boromir shivers.

Aragorn leans close and tightens his arms. "Are you cold?" he asks.

"No, not cold." Boromir focuses his attention on Aragorn again. "And even if I were, I would not be for long."

The vests and tunics of Minas Tirith have more fastenings than should ever be necessary, but Aragorn fumbles with all of them, careful not to rip the fabric around them. He kisses Boromir whenever their hands and clothes are not in the way, wet hungry kisses that leave Boromir achingly hard and breathless. "Tell me what you want," Aragorn whispers.

"You," Boromir replies, smiling against Aragorn's neck. He licks the flesh under his mouth, feeling the surge of Aragorn's heartbeat. It has taken a long time for him to feel that he can make this request, to be certain that he wanted it, that the other man would not evade him. "I want you...inside me." His hand finds its way into Aragorn's hair again. "Take me, Aragorn."

"Oh, yes," Aragorn groans into Boromir's mouth, stroking his hands over Boromir's scarred body. The warrior remembers the Ranger's comments about the wounds he cannot see. If Aragorn could find them, heal them, then perhaps the cold fire he feels when he looks at the Ring would be gone forever...

Boromir squirms a little beneath Aragorn's kisses, sweet with berries and smoky with pipeweed, spreading his legs wider to let Aragorn fit between them. Each night since the first, they have spent more time talking and less exploring one another. Part of him does not want to waste these sweet minutes, yet he is unwilling to give up the friendship they have finally managed to forge.

"Slow, love," Aragorn whispers. But the words have the opposite effect of their intention. Boromir is startled by how strongly the phrase strikes him, for Aragorn has never called him by a pet name. His arms find their way around Aragorn's shoulders, holding him close, and he hooks his leg over one of Aragorn's, unwilling to let go. Aragorn kisses him with an openness that he has has never before sensed, while he wonders about his own aching passion. Can he have felt so deprived of affection that a simple endearment will undo him?

Though not simple, Boromir must admit to himself; nothing about his feeling for Aragorn is simple. He knows that he must seem desperate, and perhaps he is. One hand slides down, resting on Aragorn's lower back, and he moves against him.

"There is salve in my vest pocket," the Ranger murmurs. "I took it from Rivendell, in case one of us received a scratch..." His laugh is giddy. "Let me give you ease. I will do whatever you want. Just tell me."

Boromir closes his eyes, letting out an embarrassed groan. "Just fuck me," he says, then, hesitantly: "Love me. Please."

Aragorn kisses him once more, stretching out one arm to find what he needs as Boromir holds him close. "I will," he says again when he breaks the kiss to open the small container of balm. Boromir's chest feels tight with emotion that he cannot put into words. It is not altogether uncomfortable, and Aragorn's weight above him is like an anchor. He opens his eyes and looks at him, wondering how he could ever have imagined not wanting this.

"Are you ready?" Aragorn asks, fingers hesitating at the opening to Boromir's body before one pushes inside. The initial penetration often takes a moment to become comfortable, even when there is no pain and there is perfect trust, but Boromir feels no resistance in his body. If anything, he is trying not to push down too eagerly.

"Yes," Boromir says, his voice barely above a whisper. His fingers clutch at the ground beneath him, and he tries not to squirm, nor to move against Aragorn's hand. He does not want to seem too submissive. But he cannot stop himself from saying, "Aragorn. More. Please?"

"So courteous," Aragorn chuckles. He starts to slide his fingers away, then twists them suddenly and pushes in deep, pressing against the sensitive spot inside. Boromir's back arches off the ground, his mouth wide open in a silent cry of pleasure. It seems like an eternity since he has done this, and he can feel himself trembling. He lifts his hand unsteadily and brushes the hair from Aragorn's face.

"Too much?" Aragorn whispers.

"No!" Boromir takes a deep breath, lowers his voice. "No. Please, don't stop." His fingers trail along Aragorn's stubbled jaw. "Please." Aragorn leans forward to kiss Boromir as he sheathes his fingers deep again, more slowly this time, curling and stroking until Boromir shakes against him. He lets his mouth slide over Boromir's chin, in a straight line across his chest and past his navel until his lips brush the head of Boromir's cock.

All coherent thought flees Boromir's mind. "Oh," he says. "Oh." His fingers tangle in Aragorn's hair and he lifts his hips a little to encourage more. Just Aragorn's fingers, stroking, probing, and "Oh!" Aragorn takes him further into his mouth, applying gentle pressure as his fingers plunge once more deep inside.

A deep shudder wracks Boromir's body. He groans, his hips moving restlessly now, rocking his cock into Aragorn's mouth, pushing him back against his fingers. "Aragorn!" Feeling the tongue stroking along the shaft, Boromir spreads his legs wider, in invitation, in eagerness. He does not want this to end, but he's afraid that if Aragorn doesn't stop, it will all be over far too soon. He thrusts between Aragorn's lips with fluid welling again at the tip of his cock. Reluctantly Aragorn draws his mouth away, fingers still curled inside Boromir.

"Want you. Aragorn." Boromir trails a finger across the other man's glistening lips, smiling a smile that he knows is quavering. He thinks that he could not ever have desired anything with this intensity. "Love me," he whispers, grasping Aragorn's upper arms, pulling him up. "And kiss me," he adds, sucking on Aragorn's bottom lip.

These are both demands to which the Ranger surrenders gladly, holding Boromir close, opening his mouth to Boromir's tongue. "Will you turn over?" Aragorn whispers when their lips part.

"No," Boromir says, "like this. I want to be able to see you. Touch you."

"But I want to be able to hold you," Aragorn insists. "To have you in my arms."

He does not have the strength to deny Aragorn a second time. Boromir leans up and kisses him again, then nods. While Aragorn sits back with the salve, Boromir turns over onto his elbows and knees, shifting his hips. He rests his forehead against his arm for a moment, taking a deep breath.

Before he touches Boromir's erection again, Aragorn presses close, wrapping himself around him until his face is buried in Boromir's hair, his cock nestled in the cleft of his buttocks and his hands splayed possessively across Boromir's chest, holding on as their ankles rub and twist around each other. "I have wanted this so much."

Boromir's heart is in his throat, and it is so much easier to speak with Aragorn folded against him like this: "You have it. Yours. Take me." He presses back into the delightful warmth of Aragorn's body.

"No, yours," Aragorn whispers as he moves his damp fingers down to grasp Boromir's cock and positions his own against Boromir's still-slick opening. He pushes in slowly to avoid causing Boromir pain, though Boromir thinks his thrusts against Aragorn's palm must reveal that he is not too uncomfortable.

"Aragorn!" Boromir squeezes his eyes shut, trying to calm his pounding heart. His knees are trembling, and his mouth is very dry. Oh, but if Aragorn does not _move_... He groans helplessly, shoving back against Aragorn's hips. "Please," he whispers.

With a groan louder than Boromir's, Aragorn begins to thrust, and Boromir finds momentary control in the rhythm, feeling the hand moving on him in the same slow tempo. He silences his burning need to climax for as long as he can, moving with Aragorn, focusing on the sweet pleasure of being filled. Of having Aragorn behind him, inside him. "Mine," he gasps. "Oh. Aragorn." He shudders. "So -- good. Please."

"Boromir," Aragorn chokes out. "You're...oh...yours..." With every word his control frays, until he slams into Boromir with the same urgent need. "Yes," he whispers, and "yours," and "love," and then only wordless, escalating groans escape his lips. Boromir is pushed forward with each hard thrust, his knees and hands rubbing harshly against the grass, but pleasure overrules discomfort. He rocks, meeting and matching Aragorn, trying to encourage him to move faster, crying out.

The heat and movement are too much, rhythm disintegrating as Aragorn tries to slow the inevitable ascent to climax. They are touching nearly everywhere they can, with Boromir's feet chafing Aragorn's legs, Aragorn's mouth diving to taste Boromir's shoulder. Pulling his weight back momentarily, he lets his fingers on the ground hunt for Boromir's, clutching at them. "Yes," Boromir gasps, "Aragorn!" His head rests back against Aragorn's shoulder, and he trembles. "Aragorn!" he cries, repeating the name like a litany, an anchor, as he lets go, jerking helplessly.

"Oh," Aragorn says as if startled when Boromir covers his hand with fluid. He holds tight through the tremors until the muscles clamping down on him ease up enough for him to begin to slide within the slick heat again; then one thrust, two, and Aragorn's climax pours out of him the way sounds pour from his throat, uncontrolled and joyous.

Boromir's arms cannot hold him for long, and even before he thinks Aragorn has sufficiently recovered, he all but collapses to the ground, hiding his face on his arms and gasping for breath. The Ranger cannot help falling with him, arms sliding around his body, slick with sweat. "Aragorn. You -- that -- oh."

Aragorn turns his face up, nuzzling the moist hair behind Boromir's ear, then the ear itself, pulling as if he wishes to turn them both onto their sides. Boromir rolls with him, pressing up against his chest. He takes ahold of Aragorn's wrist and draws the hand around to his mouth, kissing his palm tenderly. When Aragorn tries to capture his lips, Boromir wriggles around in his embrace until he is facing him. He strokes Aragorn's face before kissing him with as much tenderness as he can.

And Aragorn speaks with sorrow in his voice. "You should have more than this," he murmurs. "You deserve a better fate..."

"A better fate than being with you?" Boromir lets his face rest against Aragorn's warm shoulder, feeling sheltered and safe. "What more could I possibly want, or need?"

"Not to lie on the ground. Not to creep away in secret. To be with someone who will put you before all other things. Boromir, you have known too little kindness in your life. I can see the scars your father has left in you, and even, perhaps, your brother. And I do not know how to heal them."

"Aragorn." Boromir tightens his arms around him. "You cannot heal all my wounds. I do not expect that of you."

"Perhaps not." Something has shifted between them, Boromir realizes, for he is holding Aragorn now rather than the other way around, though they have not moved. "Still, I wish you would let me try. Tell me what hurts you; perhaps I can help."

Boromir kisses him again, before whispering, "There is a small rock digging into my hip..."

Effortlessly Aragorn rolls beneath Boromir, laughing as Boromir's weight crushes his breath from him. "Is that better?"

"Yes, much." Boromir braces himself on his arms, looking down. "Aragorn...I have not felt like that since...I cannot say that I have felt it before."

"I am sorry that I could not make it last," Aragorn whispers. "I tried, but I cannot stop myself when you say please."

"Do not be sorry. We have many more nights ahead of us on this journey. We will simply have to try again." Then suddenly he is caught between pleasure and terror: pleasure at the thought of the time they will remain together for the journey ahead; terror at the understanding that everything will change, soon, and at how lost he may be, how lost he is becoming already. He rests his head against Aragorn's shoulder again, finding it surprisingly yielding. "I think I -- may get used to this."

Sliding up Boromir's back, Aragorn's fingers find their way into his hair and begin to stroke it. "I do not know if it is wise for us to get used to this. Have you never become...entangled with someone, knowing from the start that there might be a high price, thinking that it would be worth it nonetheless, and understanding only later that the price was higher than you could have imagined?"

"...yes." A face intrudes on his memories; with guilt Boromir pushes it aside. "But please, Aragorn, I do not wish to burden myself with such thoughts now."

Aragorn nods after a moment, and Boromir wonders whether it is already too late -- whether the pain that he will feel when this must end, be it at a time and place of his choosing or not, will be more than he can bear.

"Do you want to sleep?" he asks.

"Yes, I would like to. Should we dress?"

"Probably. In case someone comes looking for us..."

"In that case, you will have to get off of me."

"Oh. I suppose you're right." Boromir pushes himself off of Aragorn, flopping onto his back beside him in the grass. After a moment Aragorn gets up on shaky knees to retrieve his clothing.

Still Boromir does not move, resting on his back, his skin mourning the loss of the other man's warmth. He looks up at the sky, and wonders: how long?


	4. Restoration

"Where _did_ you learn to do that?"

Boromir curses inwardly as the words leave his lips, as the comfortable laughter he has been sharing with Aragorn fades and the Ranger looks at him with curiosity. A few weeks of sharing blankets and the occasional evening escape into the woods -- plus some late afternoons while hunting, one rushed noontime while waiting for the others to catch up and one early morning when Boromir was supposed to be on watch, mere feet away from where Gimli was sleeping -- have not completely erased the previous months of distance and distrust. He did not mean to sound so demanding, obsessed with Aragorn's past.

"I was much younger," Aragorn says thoughtfully. "And not sure I liked it, at first. It disgusted me, and yet I enjoyed having it done to me so much that I grew to appreciate the power in the act. And the intimacy. Are you sorry I did it to you?"

Boromir hesitates for a long moment before shaking his head, afraid that a spoken disavowal might reveal too much enthusiasm on his part. Aragorn is very close to him, not quite touching, but leaning on an arm at his side. Soon, Boromir knows, they will do what they came here to do, but the past few times they have crept away together, they have spent as much time talking as touching.

Now he finds himself being studied again. Suddenly suspicious, Boromir demands, "Were you testing me?"

Aragorn's eyes widen. "Testing you?" When Boromir remains silent, he frowns. "I did it for pleasure, my own as well as yours. I enjoyed myself quite thoroughly. Did that escape your notice?"

"It did not." Ever since the first time they lay together, Aragorn has been less restrained, both vocally and in terms of his physical responses. The previous night, Boromir had feared that Aragorn would wake the others with his groans. Yet, much as he enjoys this power to affect the other man, Boromir cannot escape the feeling that his own control is being challenged as well. "I did not know what you enjoyed...whether it was what we did, or the fact that you could persuade me to do it."

"Perhaps both," admits Aragorn with an unabashed smile. "Why did you want to know where I learned it?"

Boromir shrugs. "Curiosity. I wondered how often...I do not believe that it is common practice in Gondor, especially between soldiers on the march."

"I am sure that it is not." The Ranger smiles again, mouth curling with what might be embarrassment or wistfulness. "You remind me of the man who taught it to me."

"Did you love him?" Boromir asks quietly, not certain that he wishes to know the answer. He expects Aragorn to glance over to see whether he asks out of envy, and to gloat when he discovers that it is so. But the Ranger looks pensive, studying the sky rather than Boromir's expression.

"He is special to me."

"He is. Still." There is a touch of rancor in Boromir's own voice that he cannot keep quiet.

"He always will be." Now Aragorn gazes back at him, eyes narrowed. "He is a very dear friend."

"A dear friend with whom you...yes."

The gaze upon Boromir still seems to be assessing him, but the voice is gentle. "Not for a very long time. Perhaps before you were born. I do not remember."

"I imagine not." This is perhaps an opportunity to learn more of the secrets of his companion's long past. "You said that you had met Arwen...how many years ago?"

"We met in Lórien thirty-eight years ago."

"Thirty-eight years!" It is beyond Boromir's imagining. "I have never had a lover for more than a few months, save one." Musing on this, he adds aloud, "Perhaps this is why I am not certain what it is you want of me. Nor, in truth, what I want of you."

"Who is this lover?" With an uncomfortable jolt, Boromir realizes that he had not expected Aragorn to express the same sort of interest in his life as he had shown in the Ranger's. This is not a question he is ready to answer.

"He is someone I have known nearly all my life," Boromir says dismissively. "We have always known that we could not stay together. But knowing has not made it any easier."

"I am sorry." Aragorn's voice is low and empathetic. "And as for what I want from you...I do not desire you take you from him, if that is what you fear."

Of course not, Boromir nearly says, and finds it necessary to hold back an ironic laugh. To say so would mean to suggest a lasting arrangement between the two of them, and Boromir is certain that Aragorn sees him as a temporary diversion, nothing more. "I did not fear that you did."

"Good. I do not wish to have that sort of worry between us."

The conversation that had been so warm seems to twist, becoming cool and pragmatic. "What sort of worry?" demands Boromir. "That I might suspect you of prying about my lover, while you might suspect me of resenting your fiancée and all the others who stand between you and me? Is this a game, Aragorn?"

"A game?" The Ranger stares as if he had never heard the word before. "No, not a game. I have enjoyed myself, certainly, but if you suggest that I am toying with you or your feelings, then you are wrong."

"Indeed." Boromir is uncertain whether the relief he feels is appropriate. "How would you describe what is between us, then?"

Straightening his clothing, Aragorn sits up, moving his eyes from Boromir's to the ground. "I am not certain what purpose a name for it would serve. I hope you do not think that we are merely using one another. I would be upset were you to stop seeking my company."

"I see." He is not certain that he does, but Boromir is also glad not to have to look at the other man, for he is certain that the leap of his pulse at Aragorn's words is neither honorable nor appropriate. His hands twist the leather of the belt that holds his scabbard as he wonders what the words mean.

"And when we come to the borders of Gondor, to the road that leads to my city?"

The sigh that escapes Aragorn's lips is loud enough for Boromir to hear. He turns to meet Aragorn's glance, but instead of the uncertainty he hopes to see, he is met with an implacably set jaw. "Do not start this again."

"I did not start it, Aragorn."

"No, but I will not carry the conversation there."

"Then perhaps we should end this...conversation. It seems that you feel free to ask what you will of me, but like a dutiful Steward, I am not permitted the same courtesy." This accusation is not entirely warranted, but Boromir finds himself angry at the barrier between them that he can neither see nor name. And how can he combat it, thus?

"It is unfair to bring any of that into this. Into what we share when we are alone," insists Aragorn. "Can these private moments not be separate from our burdens? I thought perhaps we might find respite in each other. "

Boromir knows that he should choose his words very carefully, waiting to speak until he can ask a reasonable question rather than launch an offensive, but Aragorn has forced his way past Boromir's guard, and he finds himself raising his voice in defiance. "Then that is what I am to you -- respite. Very well, that is what you shall be to me as well."

"What is it that _you_ want from _me_?" Aragorn demands angrily. "To tell you that you are a convenience? That there is no love in our...arrangement? Then when I kiss you, will you feel nothing?"

The tremor that wracks Boromir's body is enough to remind him that he cannot hide the intensity of his true feelings. He cannot beg Aragorn for his love, his kisses; he cannot even permit Aragorn to see how deeply they move him. All he can do is to pretend that his passion is for the act rather than the man. "I will feel the pleasure of the kiss," he confesses. "Is that not enough?"

"I suppose it will have to be enough."

Then, because he cannot hold back the words, Boromir blurts, "It would be easier if I had never learned your name."

Aragorn sighs once more. "I will remember to kick Legolas the next time I have the opportunity."

The sudden, unexpected change in tone makes Boromir snicker. "Perhaps you should restrain yourself. His opinion of Men is already low enough."

The Ranger laughs with him, but when Boromir looks at him, Aragorn's face grows somber. "I assumed it would be easier this way. I cannot imagine how you would have reacted to finding out, months from now, who I really am. I much prefer to live with your resentment now than with your spite later at not knowing until it is too late to salvage anything between us."

"What is it you hope to salvage?" Boromir bursts out. "I am the son of the...but I am not even permitted to speak of it." He glares.

"Perhaps we have spoken too much already," replies Aragorn in a calm, resigned tone. "I have already told you that I have no desire to play games with you."

"Aragorn, what is this, if not a game! That is all it can ever be," snaps Boromir, his clipped consonants emphasizing the frustration in his words. "You wanted -- what was your phrase -- you wanted respite. If that is what you seek in me, what more will there ever be?"

Boromir is uncertain what he hopes to gain, be it apology or simply greater passion than this dull acceptance. He seems, at least, to have succeeded in the latter, for Aragorn's eyes are suddenly lit from within, as if reflecting the distant fire of their camp. "Perhaps you are right." The Ranger does not smile, though he slowly extends an arm. From Boromir's position seated on the ground, the look and the extended hand appeared to make a demand. "Come here."

So Boromir goes. When their mouths meet, it is as though they have never argued, or maybe as though the argument has sparked a flame between them. The kisses are hot and fiery, tongues combating as if in a duel to subdue one another and fingers pressing greedily against one another's skin and hair. Aragorn's hands make quick work of Boromir's clothing.

"You are breathtaking," Aragorn whispers between kisses. "Boromir. Let me look at you..."

And suddenly Boromir cannot bear this, whether the Ranger calls it a game or respite, these moments of the most powerful feeling he has ever known that he knows mean something much less significant to Aragorn. "Stop speaking to me like that!" he exclaims, much more bitterly than he intends.

"Like what?" The other man draws back, some of the color fading from his flushed cheeks, though Boromir knows that his own are just as red. "I don't understand..."

"I am not some elf maiden you are courting! Do not speak to me as if I were your beloved." The moment the word escapes his lips, he wishes he had chosen another. "You must not...let us just do what we came here to do."

"Shall I kneel for you, then?" Aragorn's half-lidded eyes are dark with passion and perhaps, finally, with the same heated anger coursing through Boromir. "You can fuck my mouth if I talk too much."

"Aragorn..." The Ranger has, in fact, slid to his knees, and is pulling Boromir close with his hands. Though Boromir has spent much of the day fantasizing about Aragorn in this very position, he cannot bear this either -- he cannot escape the symbolism of the pose and the mockery it represents. "No," he protests. "Lie down."

The words come out more like a plea than an order. Aragorn's eyes open wide, yet he moves to obey. "Let us do this at the same time," Boromir tries to suggest in an efficient, rational manner. Calm, respite, that is what Aragorn seeks. "Turn around." With his hands he works free the rest of Aragorn's clothing, touching the warm, rough skin of his legs and then the softness between them, the silky flesh over muscle and the rougher texture of the sac.

Aragorn's mouth descends on him without warning, engulfing him in heat that sucks and clings, seeming to seek to mark him. Whether Aragorn wants to please him or merely demonstrate his mastery, Boromir cannot guess; nor does he know whether his own urgent response is a reaction to the overstimulation of his cock or to the complicated emotions making him ache more than his desires. He trembles, gasping in shame, pulling his mouth from Aragorn.

"Oh. Stop, stop! I will not last..." "Mmm." The hum vibrates against Boromir's flesh. Aragorn's voice is muffled but he sounds soothing, even kind. "Stop fighting, love...there...let go..."

It would be all too easy to obey, yet Boromir forces himself to regain a measure of control. "No. Stop. Not like this." It is unbearable, this sweet, mutual...loving, that is what it feels like, though he dare not think of it as such, when brutality would be easier to accept. For it cannot be -- it cannot last. He swallows. "Stop this and take me. Please."

Aragorn sits up slowly, gazing at him through wide, guileless eyes for a long, painful stretch of time. "Are you certain that is what you want?" he asks finally. Nodding, Boromir tries to hold Aragorn's glance but finds it easier to lower his head, even if the other man might read he gesture as submissive. He does not understand why Aragorn's eagerness has softened into caution.

Finally Aragorn nods in return. "If that is what you want...I can deny you nothing." He moves, too quickly for Boromir to roll over, pinning him on his back.

Boromir had wished to be taken from behind, pressed into the ground which would accept his fury or his pain in silence, never allowing Aragorn to see whether he wept or gritted his teeth or mouthed words of joy that he would never speak aloud. Damp fingers penetrate him, the stinging stretch almost a relief, allowing him to flinch and turn his head to the side. Then Aragorn murmurs, "Don't close your eyes."

"You cannot ask me that!" He looks up at Aragorn, whose face is much too open, lips parted and eyes bright with tears that glitter in the dimness. "Please," Boromir begs, no longer caring what Aragorn thinks of his lack of honor. "Just do it fast."

Yet Aragorn continues to stare with that same pained, soft expression as he leans over Boromir, pressing excruciatingly close. "Why?" the Ranger asks softly. "What are you so afraid of seeing?"

"I...ahhh!" The forward slide and steady push of Aragorn's cock take Boromir by surprise, though he has been anticipating this feeling. He feels as though his body is tearing open, the same way Aragorn is tearing truths from his heart. The misery that surges in him is not only from the ache of penetration or the shame of allowing himself to be taken like a woman by a man to whom he wishes never to bow; it comes from a deeper place, from the understanding that he cannot hold Aragorn even when Aragorn is pressed deep inside his body, for Aragorn is neither friend nor lover but companion in a cause, and will be gone thereafter.

Yet alongside the pain runs another feeling which threatens to overwhelm all his suffering -- a blazing heat that starts in his loins and radiates throughout his body like the joy of victory or the pleasure of conquest. That is what he cannot share with Aragorn, more than the pain. Boromir grates out, "It is what you would see..."

"What should I...oh! What should I fear?" murmurs the Ranger, gritting his teeth as he fights to hold Boromir's eyes.

"You...oh...Aragorn...hurts." Boromir feels Aragorn hesitate, then pull back, and quickly begs, "No, don't slow down! Don't..." The pain shifts, seeming to lodge in Boromir's throat. Tears sting his eyes. He wants to tear himself away, to flee and nurse his wounds, but even if pride would permit it, he could not stand to lose the shocking pleasure of this intimacy, the momentary belief that Aragorn is his...

"Boromir -- _now_ tell me you feel nothing. Tell me...ahh! Tell me I'm wrong!"

"I...I don't..." Boromir's voice is a sob. Aragorn's fingers wrap around his cock and stroke him, the way Aragorn now knows Boromir liked to be touched, rapidly and not too roughly, "Ahh -- so close -- "

"I...oh! Love! Tell me!" Aragorn cries out, and then, "Boromir!", followed by an inarticulate howl that might wake the Fellowship some distance away. Even in climax he maintains his touch on Boromir, and Boromir feels words welling in his throat, on his tongue, the words Aragorn had asked for...

"No, no, no!"

Shuddering, the other man slows, then pulls himself out. His eyes on Boromir's face are wild. "Did I hurt you? Let me..."

"Stop! Don't touch me..."

Aragorn hesitates, not understanding. "I thought you wanted this."

"Stop what you were asking!" Boromir pleads, knowing that if Aragorn asks again, or calls him by that endearment again, he will answer, and tell Aragorn everything. His breath comes in shudders. "Be silent. Please. Will you do that? Silent!"

The Ranger's chest is heaving, and he looks as though he will say more, but after a moment he swallows and nods. "Not a word, then." And he does not speak, even when Boromir calls his name as he thrashes, and utters wordless pleas, and finally shoots his seed into Aragorn's hands with a sobbing groan.

The Ranger moves as if he would pull away. But Boromir holds on to him, feeling his hands close too tightly around skin that recoils from his touch. He knows that his body is giving away his feelings, his wishes, yet in this vulnerable moment he is unable to help himself. "Stay," he mutters. "Give me a moment. Please."

With a long sigh, Aragorn yields to his desperation, resting in his arms. "Have whatever you need," the Ranger whispers. Boromir knows that Aragorn can surely feel him shaking. That he is lost, that he has already revealed to Aragorn all that he longs for, he can admit; yet he has nothing but his honor, and his oath to Gondor, to cling to now.

"I cannot be what you want," whispers Boromir. "I cannot give you what you want."

"I don't understand. I want nothing." Then Aragorn lowers his head, pressing his lips fiercely into Boromir's hair. "No, that is not true. You know that I am lying when I say I seek only respite. I thought only...Boromir, if I were any other man, would you deny me what I long for?"

"How can I answer that? You are _not_ any other man," Boromir replies. His heart is still racing, his thoughts clouded by conflicting needs, and he still cannot make sense of Aragorn's question. "More to the point, what have I denied you that you long for? You have had me. You have had me begging for you."

"Yes, I have had you begging. I have had you crying out, on your back, on your knees -- I have taken you so hard that I cannot remember who I am. But it is not the same as having you. I cannot call you mine. You will not be mine."

"If I give you any more of me, there will be nothing left," Boromir gasps, left breathless by Aragorn's words. "I will not remember where I owe my allegiance."

"But I would not ask that of you! For I already know where your allegiance lies." Aragorn gulps in a breath, and Boromir finds scant comfort in the recognition that the other man is shaking like himself. "Why are _you_ here? Is it not simply convenient for us to find relief together, when our own hands do not suffice? If not for respite, then what?"

"For love." Surprise brightens Aragorn's eyes, and perhaps tears, but Boromir can see no further for his own vision is blurring. He had not meant to speak the answer aloud, but his tongue had found the words before his mind understood what he wanted to say, and he cannot recall them now. Swallowing hard and blinking, he adds, "I too spoke falsely before. As you know. Perhaps for the same reasons that you did."

"I did not think you wanted to hear the truth," sighs Aragorn. "But Boromir, I will not lie anymore." His fingers grow suddenly tender, trailing through Boromir's hair and down his cheek. "If this has become too complicated..."

"It has been complicated from the beginning," Boromir interrupts. "Nothing in my life is my own to give. Nor yours, perhaps. I understood from the beginning that there would be a price."

Leaning back, Aragorn lets his head drop into the grass as he gazes up at Boromir. His fingers lift again, weave into Boromir's hair and pull his palm flat against Boromir's cheekbone, cupping it gently. Boromir lets his lids drift shut, but Aragorn presses his head up, forcing Boromir's eyes to meet his.

"I pay as high a price, I think," Aragorn whispers. "When this journey is over, wherever our paths may lead us, you will have a part of me." His free hand seeks out Boromir's, bringing the fingers to his lips, where he kisses the knuckles before resting Boromir's palm against his cheek. "I am sorry. I meant to bring you pleasure, not regret."

"But I do not regret this!" Boromir's fingers stroke Aragorn's face, fumbling into his hair and around the back of his head to draw him closer. "I -- I regret that we are not free. That we did not meet at a different time, and in a different place. Though perhaps it would not have mattered."

He pauses, considering his place and Aragorn's, and understands for the first time that perhaps there is a way. If he is Gondor's destined Steward, and Aragorn is the long-prophesied King...but Aragorn will not even discuss turning to Minas Tirith until they have seen the Ring into Mordor, and Boromir cannot imagine that his father will accept this Ranger from the North as his legitimate ruler.

Moreover, Aragorn is betrothed to a Elven lady, and Boromir himself will be expected to marry and continue the Steward's bloodline. No matter what fate lies in store for them, there will be no simple enjoyment. Even so, he would not give up whatever part of this he could keep; were it in his power to control his destiny, he would remain at Aragorn's side.

Swallowing, Boromir meets Aragorn's eyes again. "I do not regret this," he repeats. "And you have brought me pleasure, more than you can know. I can no more be yours than you can be mine, but I love you nonetheless."

Suddenly Aragorn's mouth is on his, and Boromir feels himself pulled into a tight embrace. "As I do you," the Ranger whispers. "When we disagree, when we argue, my feelings do not change. And when I fear most for you..." He falls silent and kisses Boromir again, hands tangling in his hair.

By the time they draw apart, Boromir has forgotten what, if anything, he meant to ask, or to say. In spite of his turmoil, he feels content, even happy in this moment -- undivided, whole. "Stay," he whispers as he did before, and Aragorn settles against him:

"I have never wished to leave."


	5. Bitter Medicine

"...and the tower guard will take up the call, 'The Lords of Gondor have returned!'"

Aragorn is silent for a moment and looks away, off into the distance of Lorien, where he might be either imagining a return to Gondor or trying not to let Boromir believe that he intends to be a part of this vision of the two of them riding in triumph together to Minas Tirith. They sit together at the foot of a great mallorn tree, not far from where their companions are sleeping, in the spot to which Boromir had wandered when he could not rest. Concerned, Aragorn had joined him, and listened as Boromir had poured out his heart about the vision the Lady of the Wood had left in his mind.

Tentatively Aragorn meets Boromir's gaze once more, reaching out to trail a finger down the tear-track on Boromir's cheek. Boromir is slightly ashamed yet happy that it seems his words have penetrated the Ranger's aloofness at last. Turning his face, he kisses Aragorn's hand. Aragorn moves closer, his fingers slipping around to the back of Boromir's neck. "I would not have you suffer," he says softly.

"If the Lady of the Wood sees truly..." Boromir begins, but the Ranger pulls him to his feet.

"Come with me," Aragorn urges, disregarding what Boromir had been saying. His fingers keep their hold on Boromir's hand as he starts to guide him away from the resting Hobbits, the watchful Elf and the snoring Dwarf. Boromir cannot help glancing back at Frodo, whom he is certain is not yet asleep. Frodo's fingers rest below his chin, and Boromir is certain they surround the Ring on the chain about his neck. But Aragorn tugs on his hand, and he follows him into the wood.

They stop at a place where Boromir can hear no voices, only the very faint sounds of water. Aragorn pulls him to the sheltering cover of a great mallorn, leaning him back against it as he wraps his arms around Boromir's waist. "It has been..." He pauses, closes his eyes and shakes his head. "Too long," he whispers, and leans forward to kiss Boromir, a gentle brush of lips across lips.

Boromir puts his arms around Aragorn in turn and simply rests against him, holding on tightly. They have not touched one another since Moria...since Aragorn saved his life from the cave troll and since Gandalf fell. They have quarreled as often as they have fought together against the enemy, and there has hardly been a moment for quiet talk, let alone kisses. "Too long," he echoes.

"Boromir..." Aragorn's fingers push the hair back from Boromir's face, and he looks at him for a long moment, studying him. He is smiling, and then he starts to sink down against the tree, dragging Boromir with him. "I need you," he murmurs, "please?" Willingly Boromir falls to his knees, still holding on to Aragorn. He does not want to worry about whether he is responding too quickly to Aragorn's request, submitting; he wants only to forget the voice that spoke in his head of his father's doom, and to believe for a moment that Aragorn cares as deeply as he does. Inexplicably, Aragorn looks calm, and Boromir bows his head, wishing only that he could share the feeling.

"Let me love you again," says Aragorn into his ear, nuzzling, sucking gently on the lobe. Boromir nods, not trusting himself to speak. His emotions are very close to the surface -- both his anger and frustration, the despair that has been gnawing at him and the passion -- the longing to beg Aragorn to save Gondor with him, or at the very least to stay with him. He fears that they are drawing near to the place where their paths must part, and it tears at him.

Aragorn is gentle when he urges Boromir to the ground, leaning on one elbow as he gazes down at him. Careful fingertips trail over his face, tracing his cheeks and jaw, teasing over his lips. Then Aragorn follows their path with his lips, and as his mouth covers Boromir's, kissing him with all the tenderness he can muster, his fingers begin to loosen Boromir's clothing. Boromir finds that he cannot be so gentle; his hands clutch at Aragorn's vest, alternately trying to cling to him and to tear the fabric away from his skin. His face is wet from Aragorn's kisses and his throat aches with unshed tears.

"Please," he begs, not even knowing what he asks for. "Please...please..."

Aragorn pauses again, staring down at him for a moment before he rises up on his knees and starts to pull away his clothing. "I want you," he murmurs, and then struggles with his boots and breeches.

"Then have me." Boromir shifts upright as well, removing the vest and shirt that Aragorn has unfastened, then stripping naked, though he worries about both strange insects and strange Elven spies in the wood. If Aragorn feels safe enough among the Elves to do this, he supposes that he has nothing to fear.

Aragorn shakes his head, and presses up against Boromir, shivering as flesh slides against flesh. "I want you to fuck me," he says, suddenly breathless. "Have _me_, Boromir."

Boromir trembles in the cool night air despite the heated skin rubbing over his own. Earlier he came very close to acknowledging Aragorn as his rightful King, the man who could redeem Minas Tirith, and now Aragorn is offering to submit to him...he does not know what it means, but his body does not care. His cock is already alert, pressing against Aragorn's thigh, and his hands wander without volition over Aragorn's back, down to his buttocks.

"Take me," Aragorn begs, "please." He presses against Boromir shamelessly and tugs him on top of himself.

Arching and thrusting his hard cock against Boromir's belly, Aragorn looks up, eyes full of need and desire. They have long since used all the ointment brought from Rivendell, treating the injuries they all suffered in Moria. Boromir glances around, wondering which of the herbs growing in this strange wood might serve to ease the way. "Tell me how I can do this without hurting you," he asks.

"You could... use your tongue," Aragorn replies, very quietly, and despite the dimness, it appears he may be blushing. Smiling slowly, Boromir nods. They are at last clean enough to consider this, having bathed in one of the silver pools of Lothlorien; a few days earlier they had both been so filthy that he would not even have contemplated it.

Licking his fingers, he pushes Aragorn's thighs apart and rubs the spit around the hole. A soft noise escapes the Ranger's throat, not quite a moan, almost a grunt. He moves his hips in a restless circle, pushing down against Boromir's finger. Yet he feels tight, tense, probably as much the result of abstinence as of the suffering on their journey.

"Slow," Boromir whispers, wiping his fingers off on the grass and easing Aragorn's legs further apart. "Enjoy this." He slides down, nuzzling and licking at Aragorn's cock.

"Yes, yes," Aragorn says mindlessly, lifting his hips up to meet Boromir's mouth. He is already shaking, his fingers clutching at Boromir's shoulders, but the tension in him does not ease despite Boromir's mouth on him. Boromir thinks that perhaps he should have rubbed Aragorn's shoulders before they began this, relaxing him, making him warm and open as Aragorn had done for him before their first time together; he can feel Aragorn's need for release but also the desperation underneath, which will make this an uncomfortable experience if it goes too quickly. Pulling his mouth from Aragorn's cock, he moves back up to kiss his mouth, resting his weight over the Ranger's body and pressing down with his arms and legs.

Returning the kisses, Aragorn wraps his arms around Boromir. He shivers, his hands stroking Boromir's hair, his back, his arms, any part of him that he can reach. "I'm sorry," he whispers, "I do want this. I need you."

"There is no need to apologize." Boromir slides his hands along Aragorn's arms, squeezing the solid muscle there. "You have been patient with me often enough." Curiously, Boromir finds that in trying to comfort Aragorn, he has eased the knot of misery that had lodged in his own chest from the time he heard Galadriel's words. Slowly he begins to kiss his way down again, past Aragorn's chin to his chest, his belly, light kisses that make his mouth water.

"I love you," Aragorn whispers, his fingers still searching out places to touch, stroke, playing lightly with Boromir's hair.

Boromir turns his face up, unable to keep his hands from clenching on Aragorn's sides, digging into the skin. "I love you. It is the only thing that has kept me sane, of late. Now let me."

Aragorn nods, closing his eyes for a moment. "Yes. Please, Boromir." He lifts his hips invitingly. Boromir slides his hands under Aragorn's buttocks, lifting them as he moves his weight off Aragorn's body to settle between his legs, which he wriggles over his shoulders. Lowering his head, he licks gently around the base of Aragorn's cock and takes his balls into his mouth, one at a time, humming to make them vibrate.

Aragorn's fingers clutch at the grass below him, and he curses, a shudder running through his body. "Please," he says again. Boromir sighs with contentment; it is pleasant not to be the one sobbing with need, this time. Slowly, inexorably, he moves his mouth downward, lifting Aragorn's hips higher, until his tongue brushes across the tight pucker that flexes and twitches against him.

"Boromir! Ohpleaseyes!" Aragorn cries out. Chuckling against his skin, Boromir extends his tongue, licking in tiny circles that get slightly wider as his mouth presses the resistant flesh. Aragorn's fingers wrap around his cock, stroking slowly to meet the rhythm of Boromir's tongue against him. He is wonderfully responsive, shifting in the grass and in Boromir's hands, moaning, whispering occasionally to Boromir, words that he sometimes understands and sometimes does not.

And all the while Boromir licks him, teasing him to a point past which Boromir knows he would not allow someone to take _him_. His fingers slide over Aragorn's cock when he finally presses his tongue inside, very slowly, for the muscle is still tight and rigid despite Aragorn's moans of encouragement. Boromir lets his entire face nuzzle Aragorn as he licks, wondering whether it would be possible to take him even with salve, at least without causing him great pain.

Aragorn buries his fingers in Boromir's hair, tugging harder than is at all comfortable. "Boromir!" His body is shaking helplessly with desire. "Love, please. Stop. Come take me."

"I will hurt you..." Boromir whispers against Aragorn's skin.

"No you won't." This is a lie, and they both know it.

"If you let me finish this, I can use your seed to ease the way..." Boromir tries.

"No! Take me, Boromir. I want to feel you inside me, _now_."

Boromir trembles, knowing that he should wait, yet unwilling to resist the command in that voice -- and not wanting to, hard and aching as he is. With a final press of his tongue, he moves away, glancing up at Aragorn. "Do you want to turn over?"

Aragorn nods, rising so that he can turn onto his knees. He lowers his torso to the ground, the length of his back arched enticingly. "Boromir..." He spreads his knees apart a little more. "Inside me."

Bowing his head so that his hair brushes Aragorn's shoulder, Boromir kisses the back of his neck, knowing that this tender gesture must be the prelude to the suffering he will soon cause the other man. He begins to push inside but meets resistance almost immediately, and can tell from the measured pace of Aragorn's breathing that Aragorn is struggling to remain still. When he reaches around he finds that Aragorn is not even so hard as he was before. "Tell me what I can do," he begs.

Bracing himself on one arm, Aragorn reaches down and covers Boromir's fingers with his own. "You can fuck me," he gasps, pushing back against Boromir and ducking his head so that Boromir cannot see his face. "P-please."

Though he thinks that he should dispute this or even pull away, Boromir's cock is aching with want and he is unsure whether Aragorn will feel rejected or humiliated if he stops now. Spitting onto his fingers, he tries once more to spread moisture where Aragorn is stretched around him, stroking Aragorn's cock more quickly, though he is not sure that Aragorn is responding. With a groan he presses down again, bucking at the heat. Aragorn cries out, his body stiff, only barely able to restrain himself from jerking away from Boromir. His breath comes in short pants as he forces his hips back.

"Do you..." The sudden movement of Aragorn's hips forces Boromir further inside, pulling uncomfortably at his foreskin until suddenly he can slide. He is ablaze with arousal at the knowledge that Aragorn will let him do this despite the pain. He groans, trying to still Aragorn with one hand on his hip, and gasps, "...want me...to stop?"

"No! No. Don't stop." Aragorn rests his forehead against his arm, and taking in a breath, pushes against Boromir again.

In a moment, Boromir knows, he will have difficulty stopping even if Aragorn asks him to; he is rocking on his knees to counterbalance the urge in his hips to thrust harder, and his cock is surging, aching to be buried again and again in this heat. "I am sorry," he groans, "Sorry...sorry..." and he chants the word like a mantra to keep a measure of control, so that the dark, hungry impulses in him cannot overwhelm him to take and possess.

Aragorn holds very still, hushing Boromir, until the only thing that is shaking is his voice. "It's all right, love, I...I will catch you..." Boromir can hear the catch in his voice and knows how much pain he is causing, a terribly cruel twist when all of this began because Aragorn wanted to heal Boromir's suffering and ease his tension. He whimpers quietly, feeling tears threatening but not so much that they can dampen his ardor.

Another push of Aragorn's hips and Boromir cannot hold back anymore; he thrusts deep, groaning loudly, tugging on Aragorn's cock in time with his movement. Aragorn cries out as well, trying to stifle the sound against his arm. Despite how hard he is obviously trying to hold still, his body jerks forward again as if he would crawl away, but he catches himself and begins to speak Boromir's name like a litany, over and over.

It would be kindest, Boromir knows, to finish this quickly rather than to hope Aragorn will become aroused from Boromir's urgent battering. He tries not to think, only to let desire swell in himself, horrified at how moved he is when Aragorn begins to chant his name as if it could be balm for this torture. "Oh...love you," he whispers, shuddering.

"Love -- " Aragorn repeats, his voice strained. "Please. Oh, please -- " His words are cut off with a soft cry and his fingers tighten painfully around Boromir's wrist, but he does not try to escape.

Boromir's chest aches, though the pain has nothing to do with the position in which he is bent; he thinks his heart is wounded, just as surely as he is wounding Aragorn's flesh. "Love...you so..." He cannot think with this heat in his body, the comparisons he wants to make are shattering -- he thinks of his brother, of Gondor, but they do not diminish what he is feeling for Aragorn.

Aragorn is making small, frantic noises in his throat, squirming now, unable to hold himself still anymore. "Boromir," he gasps, "please, love...come for me..."

The heat that has been pooling in Boromir's gut suddenly floods downward, throttling him, making him shove into Aragorn far more forcefully than he intends, but he cannot withdraw. His hips lock, his head jerks upright and he cries out loudly, his voice echoing in the trees, fingers scraping against the Ranger's skin. And he obeys the command, feeling the heat burst out of him, flooding inside Aragorn.

Aragorn lets out a loud groan, beginning to shake helplessly against Boromir. He doesn't make another sound as he waits for Boromir to come down from his orgasm. Keening, Boromir shudders and withdraws as quickly as he can, knowing that if Aragorn is bleeding then the sting will be agonizing. He wants to apologize again, he wants to tell Aragorn that he loves him, but all he can manage is to say his name in a voice that breaks.

The Ranger stays where he is for a moment, then pushes himself up onto his knees, turning to face Boromir who tugs him in hard, trying to say with his embrace what he cannot seem to put in words. He kisses Aragorn's face, strokes his hair, then pulls Aragorn down on top of himself, unsure whether he will be too sore to sit.

"I love you," he manages to say, finally, again, so full of apology and gratitude that he cannot find other words.

And Aragorn tries to smile, touching his face and kissing him tenderly. "I love you, Boromir."

"Tell me what I can do..." He can feel that Aragorn is not hard, and wonders whether it would help matters or make matters worse if he were to turn Aragorn around and suck away his seed so that it cannot sting Aragorn further. "Do you want me to suck...or to take me..."

"Just stay," Aragorn whispers, resting his head on Boromir's shoulder.

Boromir holds him close, kissing his forehead and cheeks before daring to seek out his mouth. Now that the pleasure surging through him is fading, he feels drained and regretful, horrified that he did not stop himself, when there are so many other ways in which they could have mutually pleasured one another. "I wanted you so," he says aloud, his voice uneven. "I still want you so..." And kisses him again to prove it.

"Boromir." Aragorn's lips part, his kisses soft and sweet. He brushes the hair back from Boromir's face. "I wanted you just as much." Yet his voice shakes, and when Boromir reaches behind him, cautiously, to examine with a cautious finger the too-warm, inflamed skin between Aragorn's buttocks, the Ranger gasps, "Don't touch!" His entire body trembles, and tears spill down his face after he blinks. Boromir is horrified, moments from leaping to his feet to find an Elven healer no matter the consequences, when he hears Aragorn sob and realizes that this torment is not of his exhausted body. Aragorn has suffered far worse injuries than this, yet Boromir has never seen him break down so.

"Shh, love," he croons, reminded of trying to comfort his disconsolate little brother after their mother's death and feeling tears spring to his own eyes. He wonders whether Aragorn needed physical pain to shatter the control that he had thought might be impenetrable; Aragorn had been the only one of the Fellowship not to pause to mourn for Gandalf, though the Ranger had probably known the wizard longer than any but Legolas. Boromir had watched him wander to his mother's memorial in Rivendell, and surreptitiously touch the pendant he wore from his beloved who might take the ship to Valinor before Aragorn could ever see her again. He carries his sorrows quietly, yet Boromir knows that they must be crushing him.

Shifting back so that he can see Aragorn in what little light they have, Boromir searches the Ranger's face. He is still sore himself from the battles with the orcs and the troll in Moria, and dozens of small injuries of long travel plague him, from the scratches of tree branches to the blister on his ankle that will not heal. "Where does it hurt you?" he asks Aragorn softly.

Aragorn looks away, wiping his eyes. "I...I have known Gandalf all my life," he whispers. "I thought he would...always be there to guide...guide me, and..."

Boromir feels his stomach knot at the shake in Aragorn's voice; he leans in to kiss him softly rather than let him continue. He had known Mithrandir all his life as well, but it was always a complicated relationship, for his father never trusted the wizard, preferring to give his allegiance to Saruman; then Saruman had betrayed them all, and Boromir had felt that perhaps he owed Gandalf some apology, yet he had resented him for it as well. And now Gandalf is gone, along with whatever advice he might have given them. "I know that there is no replacing him," Boromir tells Aragorn. "But it is not as if you are alone."

Aragorn lifts his head to look at Boromir. There are tears shining in his eyes. He tries to speak, but does not, instead lowering his head back down and clutching at Boromir who holds on to him, unsure whether there is anything he can say beyond the common words of comfort. He does not think that Aragorn has allowed himself to feel any grief on this quest, for he has too often had to take on the role of comforting the hobbits, and Boromir as well. "I am sorry," he mutters once more, helplessly, kissing Aragorn's hair.

This seems to break Aragorn's control. A choked noise rises up in his throat, and then, as his shoulders shake, Boromir feels tears dripping onto his chest again. "I should have done something," he says brokenly.

"There was nothing you could have done," replies Boromir vehemently. "The bridge would have fallen and taken you down with it. He made his choice to save us." Aragorn nods in acknowledgement of the words, but he clings to Boromir, choking back his tears.

Boromir cannot bear Aragorn's pain, no more than he could ever bear his brother's misery when Faramir crawled sobbing into his bed. "Please," he begs, kissing Aragorn's face, stroking his hair, "tell me what I can do."

For several long moments, Aragorn simply lies in Boromir's arms, giving in to his sorrow. When it ends he wipes surreptitiously at his face, ducking his head. "I'm sorry," he says, "I couldn't stop it."

"Shh," Boromir whispers because he does not know what else to say. "You do not need to apologize. I merely...I do not know what I can say, or do, to ease your suffering. I feel that I should do something."

Aragorn lies down again on his side, pressed close to Boromir. He reaches out and strokes his cheek, and chin, and whispers, "Kiss me?"

This is a request that Boromir is only too eager to fulfill; he tilts his face, pressing a hand flat to Aragorn's back to be certain that Aragorn will feel his embrace, and draws him close to meet his lips. "Tell me how you want me to love you," Boromir breathes, rocking beneath Aragorn, feeling him stir. "Do you want my hands, my mouth? Can I...kiss, where I have hurt you? Anything..."

"Anything!" Aragorn snuffles softly and kisses Boromir again. "Just be with me. Let me feel your mouth on me."

Gingerly Boromir rolls Aragorn to his side, kissing his way down his face and his neck, letting his hands slide to the nipples before his lips follow. He strokes everywhere he can reach, massaging muscle, drawing fingernails gently across the sensitive skin of the lower back, as his tongue continues a downward path along Aragorn's chest and belly.

Aragorn begins to wriggle, his flesh feeling warm under Boromir's hands and mouth. He sighs happily, and squirms, and tangles his fingers in Boromir's hair. "Feels so good," he whispers, "it's wonderful, Boromir, please, don't stop."

It is such relief to feel Aragorn responding to him that Boromir begins to shake again, though he tries to hide it, wrapping his hands around Aragorn's thighs as his mouth moves below his navel. His eyes keep filling with tears that infuriate him, for he will not be able to breathe through his nose to suck if he is weeping, so he tries to concentrate on Aragorn's pleasure. But his emotions are frayed, and he wonders which of them, in the end, will feel more lasting aches from their rough coupling.

"Boromir?" Aragorn reaches down for him, and tugs him up again. "Love...I'm sorry." He kisses him tenderly, cupping his face in his hands as Boromir ducks his head, breathing deeply against Aragorn's skin until the warm scent of the flesh has begun to calm him. With great care, Aragorn begins to kiss him -- slow, lingering, searching kisses.

"You have nothing to be sorry for..." Boromir blinks, sending tears spilling down his face and over Aragorn's fingers, shaming him, though he cannot even say what has distressed him so. He kisses Aragorn back with all his passion, touching him, hoping his hands will convey the care he cannot put in words.

"Love..." Aragorn wipes his face with gentle fingers, kissing him again, again. "Do not take on my pain as well as your own. Touch me. Let us heal one another." He moans against Boromir's mouth, his hips thrusting forward to push his cock into Boromir's hand.

Boromir feels himself melting under the kisses, not with arousal this time but with adoration, though his body is already remembering, replaying, beginning to awaken. He strokes Aragorn with both hands, one on his cock, the other gently cupping his balls, careful not to press behind them where he can feel wetness leaking from Aragorn and hopes there is no blood, no lasting sting. "I cannot...cannot lose you," he hears himself gasp when Aragorn pulls back to breathe.

Aragorn is breathless. "You won't," he says. His hips rock forward rhythmically, and he groans, his eyes closing. "Oh, Boromir... I -- I'm not..."

Boromir closes his hand tightly to try to hold onto Aragorn, then, hearing Aragorn's strangled cry, just as quickly releases it, realizing that the pressure on his cock must be impossible to bear. This lovemaking should not be about tending to his own pain, not after what Aragorn has just given him. Boromir pushes aside his fears and sorrow to concentrate on the steady movement of his hand on Aragorn's cock, sliding his head down again to kiss the tip, to take it in his mouth.

Aragorn lets out a low, ragged moan. His hips jerk forward, pushing him a little deeper into Boromir's mouth. He cries out Boromir's name just as he had before, as he comes, spurting into Boromir's mouth.

Boromir swallows, nearly choking, still not quite able to breathe properly, but he will not let Aragorn's seed fall from his lips; he will not sacrifice one touch, one moment with Aragorn, for as long as he can make them last. When finally he lifts his head, he touches cautious fingers inside Aragorn's thighs, feeling more wetness spilling over his hand. "Is there anything I might do to ease this?"

Aragorn sucks in a breath and wraps his arms around Boromir, holding him tight. "It will ease on its own. I am sorry if I made you uncomfortable, asking you to do that."

"No, I am the one who is sorry." Quickly Boromir stretches upright, rolling himself beneath Aragorn again. "I should not have let you do that for me. I should have stopped, but I wanted you so much."

"I _wanted_ you to do it," Aragorn insists, kissing him. "I wanted it just as much as you did."

"You will be feeling this pain for days..." Aragorn will think of him, Boromir realizes, every time he tries to shit, and the thought is so appalling that a laugh bursts out of him. And then, as quickly as he could not stop his tears, he cannot stop his laughter.

Aragorn smiles, reaching up and tracing Boromir's lip with his finger. "What is it?" he asks.

"I...you...this is..." He is cackling uncontrollably as he used to do when Faramir, tired of his older brother tickling him, finally turned the torture back on him. And he is afraid that Aragorn will think that he is making light of his pain, but his chest is shaking and tears are running out of his eyes. "I'm...sorry..." Boromir gasps, trying to catch his breath and regain control of himself. "This is mad," he splutters. "_All_ of this is mad."

Then Aragorn frowns a little as he wipes the tears from Boromir's cheeks. "I do not understand," he admits.

"You are the rightful King of Gondor and you are traipsing off to Mount Doom with a gaggle of Hobbits, a prancing Elf, a Dwarf who trusts no one, and me..." Once again the situation strikes Boromir as excruciatingly funny, and he begins to laugh again, from his belly, clutching at Aragorn in the desperate hope that he will not offend him.

Still, Aragorn is quiet, and he does not move. He remains like this for a long moment before he finally whispers, "I have never seen you laugh like this before."

"Because...it's...absurd..." Giving up on trying to speak, Boromir hauls Aragorn against him and hugs him hard. Aragorn sighs and rests his head once more on Boromir's shoulder. When a few deep breaths allow him to speak again, Boromir clears his throat. "I _am_ sorry," he says again. The laughter has relaxed him even more than his climax did, and he regrets that Aragorn could not simply give in and share his hilarity. "It is easier to laugh than to cry at our situation."

Aragorn nods. "That I do understand," he murmurs.

Boromir strokes his face. "You are tired, and you are hurting," he guesses. "Can I...rub your back? Look for herbs for you? I suppose that we should not build a fire in these woods..."

"Don't leave me," Aragorn says suddenly, his arms tightening around Boromir. "Please. Stay here."

Shaken by his vehemence, Boromir can only nod. "I was not planning to go anyplace you did not wish."

"Thank you." Aragorn's grip relaxes a little.

Boromir kisses his forehead, moving his hands into Aragorn's hair, which feels soft and clean under his fingers. He does not know what comfort he can offer, for he is not certain what troubles Aragorn -- what made him offer himself so insistently. He lets his other hand slide up Aragorn's back, rubbing his shoulders.

Aragorn lets out a soft moan of contentment, closing his eyes. "Thank you for doing this," he says.

"I think the pleasure has mostly been mine," Boromir whispers, kissing his face. "It still is. I am...happy just to be with you tonight." Cautiously he wonders, "How long can we stay here, before we must resume our journey?"

"I think we can stay as long as we need. Perhaps a few weeks. We all need time to mend."

"Then we will take the time, and you must show me how to heal you, for you have rescued me since we have been together." The Ranger, his King, pulls back for a moment, looking troubled, as if he thinks Boromir has laid the responsibility for his safety on his shoulders, but Boromir squeezes his shoulder and shakes his head. "Even if I were to fall in battle, I would remember you in my last moments, and there would be no pain."

A chilly wind sweeps through the wood, making both men cling more tightly to each other. Then it passes, leaving them pressed close, and Aragorn melts into Boromir's kiss as if there is nowhere else he could imagine being.

 


End file.
